Lonely Road
by cranapplepye
Summary: When Stiles' car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, he finds help in the form of a hot, taciturn mechanic who is the lone attendant of a dingy little station forgotten by time. Thrown together for some days while the repairs are completed, an unexpectedly closeness begins to develop, but both of them have secrets, and some of those secrets may just get them killed. (Sterek AU)
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: This started as nothing more than a passing idea to go with a tumblr gifset I made (link to it is on my bio). THEN I couldn't shake it and it demanded to be written. :)_**

**_This is a complete AU and although some things will carry over from canon and be similar, others may be completely different. Everyone is human in this, there is no supernatural. All geography, land marks, cities, roads, universities and so on are completely fictitious._**

**_Stiles is 19 and Derek is 21._**

* * *

Heat rose in waves from the single strip of bleached blacktop as it wound its tortuous route amongst the dusty, sloping landscape. The rolling hills were colored with scrub growth separated in hue from the pale dust of the earth by only the barest variations of green and dotted here and there with the darker shades of low, bushy pines. The sky was almost painfully blue and the intense noon day sun painted everything in harsh, barely shadowed relief. There weren't any vultures circling overhead to complete the sense of western cliché which the desolately picturesque scene brought to mind, but Stiles Stilinski assumed that was only a matter of time, given the way things had been going thus far.

"Oh come on... come _on!_" Stiles coaxed his unresponsive jeep in frustration. The ancient blue vehicle was coated in dust as if trying to blend into the rocks about them. It was certainly being about as _useful _as a rock at the moment. Stiles hissed, sun-warmed metal all but burning his fingers as he banged the hood closed.

Staring at the engine and willing it to work wasn't getting him anywhere. The tangle of oil and dirt crusted metal and hoses was too hot for him to get his hands into it without doing serious damage, even if he _had _had a clue what he was doing in there. He didn't, although he had once solved a similar problem by taking a bunch of parts out and then putting them back in again. He wasn't at all sure why it had worked, but it didn't look like that was going to be possible right now. Besides, his radiator was completely empty, meaning it was probably leaking somewhere, and he didn't have anything to put in it. He may not know much about cars, but he did know that it was _probably _not a good idea to drive very far without coolant in this heat even if he could have gotten the car started again. He couldn't afford to completely replace the engine.

Perspiration was trickling down the sides of his face and dripping into his eyes. He wiped at it and ended up unwittingly smudging engine oil across his cheek and temple. Sighing, Stiles leaned his forehead against the driver's side window, patting the door as if commiserating with an injured friend. "It just hasn't been our week, has it buddy?" he murmured resignedly.

Pushing away, Stiles squinted under the glare, looking up and down the deserted road as far as he could see. This may not exactly be the middle of nowhere, but it felt like it. He'd already been here on the side of the road for the better part of a half hour and not a single car had passed. He couldn't just wait here and hope somebody would show up. Who knew when or if that would happen, and there was no way he could sit around idle that long anyway.

Heaving in another sigh of hot air that tasted like dust and overheated asphalt, Stiles grabbed a hat and jacket out of the mess of clothes jumbled together in the back, pocketed his keys and started walking. He unwillingly shrugged into the jacket despite the heat after a few minutes for the simple reason that he had no sunblock and knew from experience that the unforgiving sun would crisp his relatively fair skin to a cinder if he didn't cover up.

It would be great if he could just call for help, but that would require him to have a phone. He didn't _have_ a phone because he had brilliantly left his cell on the roof of the car along with his cup of coffee when he left the shitty little motel he'd crashed at last night. All that had remained by the time he realized what he must have done and returned for them was a puddle of coffee and a broken Styrofoam cup, which was exactly his luck and pretty much a metaphor for his whole life right now.

Stiles shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and ducked his head against the glare, not caring to let his thoughts wander towards why he was out here in the first place. The matter at hand right now was finding something that passed for civilization before the unseen-but-probably-out-there buzzards got him. He'd been seeing nothing but wilderness for most of his drive since he turned off the highway hours ago, which was not encouraging. However, Stiles had a vague recollection of having passed what could have been a gas station or roadhouse of some kind a little ways back. With no knowledge of what lay ahead of him, back tracking towards that single point of possible habitation seemed his best bet. If there was someone there, they would at least have a phone he could use. He wouldn't allow himself to contemplate what he would do if there _wasn't _anyone there. Optimism was his friend, no matter how shitty its track record was currently.

_A little ways back _by car in his memory turned out to be several hours and many miles by foot. Stiles felt like he was literally roasting under his jacket. Perspiration trickled constantly down his spine, running between his shoulder blades. His shirt was soaked everywhere it was protected by the jacket, but the exposed strip down the front where the jacket hung open, and his flushed face, were dry. The arid air seemed to suck away moisture with an almost greedy thirst. Head spinning and more than a little dazed from the heat, Stiles felt like he could understand. Anything out here would be thirsty. He was. He was so terribly thirsty it _hurt. _

When he finally saw the dark shape of a building in the distance, he felt an overwhelming swell of relief and his lagging steps quickened. However, distances are hard to judge in the desert and it took him a lot longer than he expected to finally reach the place. He had plenty of time as he approached to see that it was in fact both a gas station and a diner.

The architecture and signage were old. More than old, they were practically ancient. The weathered, free-standing sign stuck up high into the air; it's curving, comic-book angles and arrows clearly relics of a bygone era. The building itself stood alone without any neighbors, as if dropped by accident into the middle of the desert landscape. Lettering on the sign promised gas, food and lodging. As Stiles approached, he saw that the low, squat structure had once been comprised of three distinct but connected wings forming a sort of V pattern. The gas station with its two pumps sat out front, facing the road, while a small, rusting turquoise and chrome diner jutted out to the left. The moldering, badly fire-damaged skeleton of a second wing on the right had probably once been the "lodging" part of the equation. It couldn't have boasted more than two or three rooms even in its heyday, but it was clearly uninhabitable now. Stiles had the inane thought that they should probably update their sign, although to be honest it looked like nothing here had been updated since the 1950's.

A pealing, hand-painted sign tacked above the gas pumps held the single word "Repairs" which Stiles supposed to be an advertisement of service, although put with everything else it looked kind of like a cry for help.

He would have begun to despair of finding the station inhabited, except that he could see movement out in front, under the shadow of the slanting, old-fashioned overhang that ran from the station building to the gas pumps. As he drew closer, Stiles saw that one of the station's two glass windows was broken and there was a young man in a stained white tank busily engaged in boarding it up.

"Oh my _God_, am I so glad to see you," Stiles enthused as he approached, voice sticking a bit around the utter dryness of his mouth. He whipped his baseball cap off, using it to fan himself as he wiped his overheated forehead, blinking owlishly now that he was out of the direct sun and in the blessed relief of the shadow cast by the station's overhang. He must have surprised the fellow because the man tensed at the sound of his voice and spun quickly towards him.

"Unless you're a mirage, I mean, but I don't think mirages usually come people-shaped..." Stiles stopped when he got a good look at the guy, his rambling train of thought momentarily broken. The dude was _hot. _Like, _movie star _hot, or so it seemed to Stiles. Tall, muscular and dark haired with just a hint of scruff around his jaw, the man filled out his well-used shirt very nicely, the worn cotton unintentionally showing off his toned body to good advantage. Equally worn, low-slung jeans rode at his hips, belt buckle visible beneath the hem of his shirt, dusty denim clad legs ending in even dustier boots. Biker boots, not cowboy boots, Stiles noted as his gaze swept up and down the man unintentionally. "Except on second thought, you could totally be a mirage," Stiles corrected himself. "Totally. I might be sun-struck right now... is that a word? Like, there's sun _stroke_, but I dunno what you call it when –"

"Do you want something?" the Adonis in blue jeans demanded a bit shortly, interrupting Stiles' babbling flow of speech. The man looked around with a frown, scanning the deserted road. "Where did you come from?"

"My car broke down, like, a gillion miles that way," Stiles pointed back the way he'd come. "And there is freaking nothing out here but dust and sage and invisible buzzards. I took a look, at the engine, not the buzzards, but I'm not sure what's wrong. It's out of coolant, and it would be great if that's the only problem, but the engine won't even turn over, so I don't know."

Mr. Sexy Tank Top was watching him with a flat gaze from underneath an impressive set of eyebrows. He was bronzed from the sun and perspiration glistened on his biceps and pooled in the hollow between his clavicles... not that Stiles was checking him out or anything. "So?" the man demanded when Stiles forgot to keep speaking. "What do you want me to do about it?"

Stiles' eyes narrowed just a little, getting the impression that tall dark and handsome was intentionally being unfriendly. It shouldn't be a surprise, he thought with a mild pang. The gorgeous ones always seemed to be conceited assholes. "Well, the sign over there says _Repairs,_" he said, pointing to the worn placard he'd noticed earlier, a touch of sarcasm edging into his tone. "So call me crazy, but I was thinking maybe you could, like, fix it or something."

"That sign is probably older than you are," the stranger retorted.

Stiles made a face. "Oh, so you _don't _know anything about cars. Of course. Great."

"I didn't say that," the man returned, sounding a touch annoyed.

"Okay... so you do?" Stiles asked, giving the fellow a squint-eyed look, completely confused by this point. He should probably just ask to use the phone, but the truth was that now he came to it, Stiles wasn't sure who he would call. He wasn't even sure how he'd find a nearby towing service or repair shop without being able to Google for it. A place this antiquated probably had a phone book? The question would be how many decades it had been since it had been replaced.

_Hot-and-Grumpy_ considered him for a long moment, looking Stiles' dusty, dirty, sweat-streaked form up and down. "Credit card machine isn't running; cash only," he informed laconically.

Feeling like he finally understood the other's reticence, Stiles relaxed a little in relief. Sure, everybody relied on plastic these days, but luck was with him for once. "Oh, okay, no problem. I have cash. How much?"

"Forty bucks up front to tow your car back to the station. Twenty to look at the engine; anything else, we'll have wait and see. Depends on what's wrong and whether I think I can fix it."

"Okay, no problem," Stiles agreed easily, finding the price reasonable. Every dollar was precious, but he had been towed once before and it had cost him a _lot _more than that. If this guy was willing to give such good rates and could fix his problem, it might be the first thing that had gone his way in almost a month. Stiles quickly dug his wallet out of his back pocket, opening it up and extracting two fairly crisp $20 bills from a surprisingly thick wad of similarly fresh bills resting in the folds of incongruously beat-up leather.

Stiles saw the man looking and quickly fumbled the wallet closed again and pocketed it, holding out the bills while kicking himself internally. He hadn't been thinking. He probably should have been more careful flashing money around like that given his situation. It would be just his luck to get mugged out here on top of everything.

The mechanic looked at him rather suspiciously, but all he did was take the offered money and tuck it away in his own pocket. "I'll go get the truck," he said, then hesitated with a thoughtful frown. "What kind of car is it? I can give you a tow either way, but if it's too computerized I'm probably not going to be able to help you with the repairs."

Stiles gave a snort. "No worries there. We're talking about a CJ-5 Jeep from like, 1980. Pretty sure computers were mostly still big as rooms back then."

Stiles saw a hint of amusement flicker across the stoic features before the man turned away and headed around the diner towards the back of the station. "Come on," he said over his shoulder when Stiles did not immediately follow. "Truck's this way."

Stiles trotted after him, somewhat reluctantly leaving the shade of the station's canopy for the blistering hot rays of the sun once more. "I'm Stiles, by the way," he introduced himself as his companion led him to an old, beat-up, rust-colored pick-up truck that had an obviously after-market tow-rig bolted on to the back.

The other man climbed into the driver's side of the truck without response.

"And you are?" Stiles prompted a little more obviously as he pulled himself up into the passenger seat, wincing at the hot, close air inside the cab.

The mechanic put the key in the ignition and shifted the truck into drive. "Miguel," he answered as they pulled out onto the desolate, dusty road.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **_**_At this point it should be mentioned that I know zip about cars and mechanical stuff. Unfortunately, I have to touch on such things briefly in this story. It's not essential to anything, so please just ignore any probable gigantic glaring errors I may make and just laugh quietly behind your hands at me and move on. :)_**

**_The hardest thing about writing this chapter was consistently calling Derek "Miguel". You have NO idea how many times I accidentally wrote "Derek" instead and had to go back and replace it afterwards. Ugh. But it's necessary, for reasons that will become apparent soon... :)_**

* * *

Stiles stood in the shade of the station's overhang, watching the mechanic inspect his jeep's engine as he gratefully downed the cold bottle of Coke Miguel had given him when he'd asked if there was anything to drink. The icy, sweet, caffeinated liquid was like a touch of heaven and he drained the bottle in under a minute. It was one of those retro style glass bottles, which seemed particularly at home in his current surroundings. The whole effect conspired to make him feel like he'd stepped into an old James Dean movie, or something. He supposed that was probably the idea.

"The glass bottles, are they for the tourists?" Stiles asked his companion, voicing his thoughts as they came to him. "Well, I mean, if there _were _tourists," he amended, glancing at the silent, empty strip of road beyond. He'd yet to see another car pass in the entire time since his jeep broke down. If there was a lonelier stretch of road in existence, he had yet to see it. Still, he suspected the station stocked the slightly less common, old fashioned bottles because presenting itself as quaint and historical was a better spin than simply being run-down and outdated.

Miguel merely grunted vaguely, either indicating that he didn't know, didn't care, or possibly that he was concentrating and did not wish to be distracted by inane questions.

Stiles looked around for a trash can, or some other place to dispose of the empty bottle. "You recycle or anything?" he asked, receiving for reply another distracted sound that told him nothing. "You know any other sounds besides _mmmn_?"

"_Mmmn,_" said Miguel, and Stiles was fairly certain it was deliberate that time.

Seeing an open, sagging cardboard box against the wall with a number of other empty bottles inside, Stiles added his to the collection before taking a slow circuit around the area. There wasn't much to see. Two chrome edged gas pumps that looked like they may have been installed in the 1970s sat near the farthest edge of the overhang. An empty, battered, defunct ice cooler leaned against the wall next to a stack of moldering tires. The picture was completed by a liberal scattering of old car parts and various boxes and crates of what looked to him like trash.

Out beyond the shadow of the overhang, there appeared to be more junk, a defunct old ford with no tires and an indistinguishably twisted hulk of metal and broken glass that wasn't a car. Given that all of those items lay out in the broiling sunlight, Stiles was quite content to glance at them from afar and remain in the shade.

There were wide, double-doors leading into the station itself. The wood doorframe was painted a faded, flaking olive color and the rows of small glass panes set into it were clouded to near opaqueness. One of the doors had been left propped open and just inside the entry sat an old-fashioned vending machine bearing the Pepsi logo and a glass-fronted refrigerator case from which Miguel had fetched the Coke a few minutes ago.

Stiles wandered in through the open door and was mildly disappointed, although not at all surprised, to find that the interior of the shop was not air conditioned. There was a large oscillating fan sitting upon the counter at one end of room, which was doing an all right job of moving the air around, but it was still fairly warm and close inside the little building. The hum of the refrigerator case by the door filled the small space. The contrast with the brilliant sunlight outside made it seem dim inside by comparison. It smelled like oil, warm metal and that particular musty scent he associated with little old ladies' houses, or the old research library at MFU. Stiles had once remarked that the library smelled like wet dog, but Scott, who had spent most of high school working at a veterinary clinic, had disagreed with that analogy.

Quickly forcing his mind away from that line of thought, Stiles took a circuit of the little shop. There wasn't much to see in here either. There was a small counter on one side of the room which held the fan, an ancient looking, tan-colored telephone and a slightly more modern cash register. Pegboards on the walls stood mostly empty save for a few tools, some packaged car parts and various paper flyers that were mostly so faded they were no longer legible.

A door at the back of the shop stood partially open, probably leading to an office or store room of some kind. As far as he could see, there was no communication between the shop and the diner beside it, nor the ruined motel wing opposite, despite them sharing the same outer wall structure.

There were several crates of the glass Coca-Cola bottles stacked up against one wall, along with a number of pallets of bottled water. There was a water cooler with a 5 gallon jug on top wedged in next to the counter and Stiles saw 4 full replacements lined up underneath the unbroken window. Double rows of shelves divided the room. One of the shelves was completely full of cans of oil, coolant, transmission fluid, wiper fluid and the like, but the others were almost completely empty with only a smattering of products making a desultory appearance.

There were a few bags of sunflower seeds, some hard candy and an open carton of Twinkies that looked like it had probably been there for the last 50 years. The refrigerator case was more fully stocked, but only with Coke and water bottles. Overall, it did not seem a terribly customer-ready establishment, and given the complete lack of traffic this road seemed to have, Stiles wondered how the station stayed open at all.

Wandering back outside he glanced hopefully at Miguel, but there had been no visible change in affairs save for him appearing to be now elbow deep in the motor. With a sigh, Stiles wandered over to walk lazy figure eights around the two gas pumps. They were so old they didn't even have credit-card readers, or the ability to select different grades of gas. He poked and fiddled with a couple of funny dangly metal latches on the side of the pump, trying and failing to ascertain their purpose. He tried to lift one of the skinny, old-fashioned handles, but found that it wouldn't move. He thought at first there must be some kind of catch or trick to it, but further examination showed that the pump handle had in fact been intentionally zip-tied into its cradle to prevent its extraction. The same was true on both pumps.

Stiles straightened with a puzzled frown. "Okay, I don't get it. You've got, like, nothing in the store and your gas pumps are non-functional. How exactly does this place stay open?"

Miguel finally leaned up from his task, looking over towards Stiles. Engine grease smudged his fingers and his arms. He jerked one thumb in the direction of the "Closed" sign still clearly visible on the unopened side of the station's double-doors.

"It doesn't," he informed flatly. "We're closed, in case you hadn't noticed. The pumps are shut off and wired down to prevent anyone messing with them. Credit card machine isn't up and running for the same reason. Nobody comes out this way unless they're going up to see the Rainbow Canyons, but this is the off-season and there's not enough traffic at this time of year to stay open. Come monsoon season that changes. This is the only station on this road between Elmira and Gold Ridge. That's around 50-60 miles in either direction," he added as if realizing Stiles might not be familiar enough with the area to understand what that meant. "So, it sees enough business then to make it at least worthwhile to maintain."

"That makes sense, I guess," Stiles replied with a slow nod. He leaned forward on the gas pump in front of him, resting his elbows on it as they conversed. "But why are you here now, if it's closed?"

Miguel shrugged, and no, Stiles attention was _not _caught by the way his shoulder muscles rippled under tanned, grease-smudged skin, _noooope. _

"I hired on last season during the peak and when it came time to close up, old man Winnemucca made me an offer to stay on and keep an eye on things during the off season. He's getting too old to come out here much anymore during the off-season himself." Miguel turned his attention back to the engine, as if considering that explanation enough, but Stiles wasn't satisfied.

"So why not keep the station open just in case, then, if there's going to be someone here anyway?" he asked, fingers crawling absently out across the hot metal of the pump upon which he leaned.

Miguel's attention remained focused on the jeep this time, but at least he answered. "Because he doesn't have to pay me nearly as much if all I'm doing is staying here and watching the place."

Stiles' eyes widened a little. "Wait, you _live _here?" He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to do that for any amount of money.

Miguel pulled a wrench from his back pocket and tackled some well-stuck nut or bolt that Stiles couldn't see from his position. He did not look up. "Yes," he said simply. "If the station's left completely abandoned for the whole off-season, it gets vandalized. Stupid kids from town come out here to get drunk, high and laid and they're always breaking in and messing things up. That's what happened to the motel," he nodded his head vaguely in the direction of the burnt out husk Stiles had noted earlier. "I'm told they nearly lost the whole station. I guess that's when the old man decided it was more economical to pay for a babysitter than to repair the damage after the fact. The old motel wing was mostly a storage area by that point, but I don't think they could afford to completely rebuild if something happened to this part of the station."

"Yeah, okay, but... you _live _here," Stiles repeated. "Dude, this has got to be the loneliest spot on earth."

Miguel's shoulders were tight now and if Stiles were a little better at reading social cues, he probably would have realized he should have backed off of what seemed a sensitive subject.

"Mr. Winnemucca needed someone willing to rough it for a few months. I need the money and a place to stay," Miguel said flatly, flashing an irritated look at his nosy companion. "It works out. Not all of us have the luxury of being picky about what opportunities come our way."

Properly abashed, Stiles studied the top of the gas pump like it was absolutely enthralling. He hadn't meant to cause offense and as usual only realized afterwards, from the reactions received, how un-tactful his words could seem if taken from a certain point of view. "Right, so... so that's really nice, that you're able to help out like that. Um, I'm sure he's really glad to have someone taking care of things and keeping the trouble-makers away." Stiles said into the uncomfortable silence, unable to keep from trying to fill it and attempting to set back out on a positive foot again.

Miguel gave Stiles an unreadable look before going around to the driver's side of the car and sliding in to try starting it up. Nothing happened and he returned to stare pensively at the engine once more.

Stiles fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the pump. "Is that what happened to the window?" he tried again, nodding towards the boarded-up side of the storefront that Miguel had been working on when Stiles arrived. "Vandalism, I mean?"

"Mmmn," Miguel responded, dropping down onto his back on the ground and scooting half under the car.

Stiles rolled his eyes as the mechanic partially disappeared from view. "Or I guess it could have been a freak storm," he continued. "You can get some pretty high winds out here, I think. The other day I was driving by this cluster of trees and –"

"It was vandals," Miguel's clipped voice from beneath the car cut the rambling story off and Stiles smiled ever so slightly. "A couple of drunk idiots were out here last night throwing rocks, but a few good shotgun blasts scared them off," the mechanic added with what might have been a touch of satisfaction in his tone.

"Geez." Stiles shook his head. "_People_, right? Can't live with them, can't... well, I guess you _can _live without them, but I imagine it'd get a little lonely, _sometimes_." Stiles only realized too late that although he'd meant the words generically, it was easy to think them directed at the mechanic's distinctly solitary position out here.

"I don't know," the cool voice drifted up from under the car, flavored with a certain tang of irony. "I rather enjoy it out here, honestly. It's so _quiet. _You don't have to put up with a lot of useless _talking._"

Stiles took the none-too-subtle hint and shut up, at least for the moment. He resumed wandering about the small patch of shade under which they stood, poking through boxes and trying to figure out the origins and purpose of the sundry bits of junk that filled them.

Eventually, Miguel pushed himself back out from under the car and straightened up, wiping his hands on the thighs of his stained jeans. Stiles broke from his bored perambulations and came over at once.

"So... what do you think?" he asked hopefully. "Top off the fluids, tighten a few screws here, replace a belt there and we're good to go?"

Miguel shook his head. He now had black smudges on his face as well as his hands and shirt. "I _think _I've seen road kill that looks better than this engine," he said bluntly. "You've got a leak in your radiator, but that's the least of your troubles. I see so many issues in there it's impossible to say which one finally caused it to stop. Bottom line, this car is _old_. It's amazing it's been running at all. A lot of the tubing is cracking and some inner gears have completely frozen up. It doesn't help that it looks like somebody's monkeyed around with a bunch of the engine parts at some point and didn't resettle them all properly."

"Oh. Really? Huh, weird," Stiles said with a wide-eyed, incredibly guilty attempt at looking innocent. "But... you can fix it, right?"

Miguel hesitated, eyeing the car in question and Stiles started to feel an unreasonable sense of desperation building in the pit of his stomach at the thought of losing his faithful old friend. It was like all the pieces of his life were getting stripped away one by one and he wasn't ready to deal with losing another. Not so soon.

"It would be a pretty big job," Miguel hedged.

"Okay, but you can do it? Look, I can pay, and I've got cash," Stiles pressed, trying and failing to not let his feelings slip through. He really hoped Miguel was just haggling with him. He was pretty sure that the majority of any money the man made off him would go straight into the young mechanic's own pocket, since he was in fact only being paid by his employer to watch the station and not for his professional services. Big repairs probably meant big money. Stiles had no idea what he was going to live on if he exhausted his cash, but he'd figure something out, he always did. Fixing Roscoe up was more important... and yes, he named his car, so what? They'd been together longer than most people he knew had been with their significant others, and his jeep was infinitely more useful, _so there_.

Miguel was frowning, but his expression was fractionally softer than before. "Look, I have to tell you that given the age and wear of the vehicle, you might want to consider that it's time to replace it. If you can call someone to come pick you up, you should probably do that. I can't tow you all the way to town with our rig, but you can leave it here and I'll keep an eye on it for you until you can send a real tow truck out to pick it up, if you want."

Stiles shook his head violently, aghast at the suggestion. "No. No way am I giving up on this jeep, like, _ever. _Just because you can't fix him doesn't mean _nobody_ can. Do you have a Yellow Pages? There's got to be some better repair place around here that will be willing to come and pick me up."

Miguel's face went hard again, bristling at the slight. "I didn't say I _couldn't _fix it," he said pointedly, "just that it would be a big job. Trust me, I'd love to take on a challenge like this _and _get paid for it, but I'm not going to act like that's your best or only option just because you're stuck out here and probably don't know any better. _The car is old._ You fix it up now, there's no guarantee it won't break down on you again and again in the future, that's a _fact. _If, knowing that, you're still determined to get it fixed, okay then, that's a different story."

Stiles bit his lower lip, realizing he had been rude when the other man had only been attempting to be scrupulously honest with him.

"You want to call somebody else, that's fine," Miguel continued coolly. "They _can_ probably fix it for you a lot faster. If you're willing and able to wait, I could do it and can give you a much better price, but it'll take a while. It's your choice."

"Oh," Stiles gnawed his lower lip some more. "Well, I mean, if you could do it that would be great... how much are we talking? And how long is _a while_?"

Miguel looked thoughtful. "I'm going to have to take the whole assembly apart to reach everything that needs repairing. Plus, half the problem is that everything is simply frozen up with years of accumulated dirt. A thorough cleaning will go a long way. The radiator and the oil lines need patching. The hoses, the starter and most of your valve seals need to be replaced and that's just the tip of the iceberg. We've got a lot of spare parts and a couple junkers out back with good innards. I'm pretty sure I can scavenge everything that might be needed." His gaze fixed on Stiles. "You need to understand we're not talking new parts. I don't know if anyone could even get you new parts for an engine this old, but I'll be working with what I have at hand and rebuilding what I can't replace," he stated clearly.

Stiles nodded his understanding. "Yeah, that's fine; as long as it works I'm good with that."

"Okay," Miguel nodded in turn. "Then, unless we run into anything unexpected or anything I can't replace without ordering a specific part, I can do it for you for $600. Time is another matter. It's already late afternoon and there's no way I'm going to be able to finish it tonight. I'm not sure about tomorrow either. I'll give it my full attention, but like I said, I'm going to have to take the whole assembly apart and if I end up cleaning and re-tooling a lot of the parts, it will slow things down. I may need a couple days. I can drive you over to Elmira now, and come get you when it's done."

"Yeah, yeah, let's do it," Stiles was already saying almost before Miguel had even finished. $600 was a _lot _of money to him, but it sounded like Miguel was pretty much rebuilding the whole engine and Stiles was well aware that it would cost him many times more than that for the same services elsewhere. He'd had to pay a similar amount for much more minor repairs only last year. "But..." he added a little more slowly, wanting to make sure his bases were covered. "What if there _is _anything unexpected or parts you can't replace?"

"This is an old, but pretty common engine. Any parts I don't have here I can probably hunt up in town. If I have to do that, I'll have to charge extra for the part and the gas back and forth to town. If I can't find the part, or anything else prevents me from finishing the job for you, you pay me $60 for the time I put into it and we call it even."

Stiles thought that sounded fair. "Okay, deal," he agreed, beginning to feel relieved. "But, uh... about taking me into town... I don't suppose there's any way I could just... I don't know, crash here tonight?" he asked hopefully.

Miguel looked distinctly surprised and hesitant about the suggestion. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"I wouldn't be any trouble," Stiles pressed his case. "I can sleep in a corner somewhere, wherever, it's cool, and I have food in my car, so it wouldn't put you out anything. I can... I don't know, help you chase off any more vandals or whatever, in exchange?"

"It's unlikely they'll be back any time soon," Miguel hedged.

"Well, maybe I can help with something else? It's just... you're not sure how long it's going to take and I wasn't exactly expecting the repairs, you know? I don't know anyone around here and the crappy motel I stayed at last night was shockingly expensive," he admitted, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand as he did when he was agitated. Stiles was more than a little worried about his finances. It wasn't that he _couldn't _afford to stay in a hotel for a few nights, but after that his options were going to become severely limited and he still had to consider what he was going to do _after _the car was fixed.

"Oh," Miguel seemed to apprehend Stiles' problem. He didn't look at all happy, but finally nodded reluctantly. "All right, I suppose you can stay, tonight at least. Maybe I'll be able to get it finished up tomorrow," he added a bit dubiously.

Stiles' face brightened. "Awesome! Thanks!"

Miguel just shrugged, his expression having once more taken on that wary, suspicious edge that Stiles didn't really understand. What did the man think, that he was secretly planning to rip the place off or something? What the hell would he steal? Used machine parts and Twinkies from the Carter administration?

Stiles learned a little more about the layout of the station over the next few hours. One important thing was that the restrooms were around the back. They were of the single room, _his and hers_ variety common to gas stations apparently since the beginning of time. There also turned out to be a shed behind the station of a much more recent build than the structure itself, in which a wide variety of tools, a large quantity of car parts and several large containers of emergency gasoline were kept safely locked up. Stiles had to admit he was relieved to see a bunch of crates with obviously used, but tidy and functional looking machine bits stacked along the walls of the shed. When Miguel had talked about scavenging parts for his car, he'd been thinking a bit dubiously of the distinctly battered and rusty specimens out in front of the station, but he realized now that those must be little more than trash; this was the true stash.

Miguel worked on the car late into the evening, keeping it in front of the station where it was shaded during the day and could be illuminated at night. Lacking anything better to do, Stiles sat on the battered outdoor ice cooler as the sun set and watched him work in the flickering florescent glow of the stations' ancient outdoor lights. The temperatures dropped with the sun and the approaching night was cool but not chilly. The wall Stiles leaned against felt warm, the plaster and cement block at his back slowly releasing the heat stored up during the scorching day gone by.

Miguel had spread a tarp on the ground and there was a small but growing array of Roscoe's guts arranged upon it. The young mechanic looked edged in white under the harsh, uneven glare of the few functional overhead lights that shone down upon his work area. His perspiration slick skin glistened slightly and each tousled dark hair on his head seemed outlined in silver. His shirt rode up his back a bit each time he bent over the car and his worn jeans were appropriately snug across his hips. Stiles was almost too exhausted after all his walking earlier to be properly bored by the lack of activity, and it wasn't as if watching Miguel bending over the engine or crawling about under the car wasn't entertaining in its own way. The man had a great ass, and Stiles was getting away with so much quiet ogling that he almost felt guilty about it. _Almost. _

Insects buzzed about them and filled the deepening night with their rhythmic droning. Stiles had been slapping at them for a while, but it was quickly becoming a much more frequent event. Finally, the increasing mosquitoes combined with the deepening darkness and inadequate illumination drove them both inside.

Miguel closed the hood and carefully arraigned another tarp over the parts he'd already extracted, weighting it down with rocks. The interior of the station was still warmer than the outdoors, but in a more pleasant way now. Stiles gladly retreated inside after Miguel and shut the door against the questing insects.

The illumination inside the station was not dazzling, but it was more than sufficient to keep out the night. It turned out the little room in the back that Stiles had seen earlier was Miguel's bedroom, although it looked like it had in fact been a storeroom at some not very long ago point before that.

Miguel pulled one of the two blankets off the old army cot he was using for a bed and handed it to Stiles. "You can sleep out here," he said, gesturing to the main area of the store. "You know where the bathrooms are. There's a hose and a bucket out near the shed if you wanna wash. Not now, there's no light out there, but in the morning. Don't drink the tap water, and stay away from the Cokes and bottled waters unless I say you can. Use the water cooler as much as you need," he gestured to the unit Stiles had observed earlier. "Make sure to stay hydrated, it's easy not to notice how much moisture you're losing in the desert."

"Got it," Stiles nodded in response to the information, snapping the other man a jaunty little salute. "All the comforts of home."

"You wanted to stay," the mechanic pointed out.

"Nah, I mean it, sounds cozy," Stiles asserted cheerfully, determined to take this all as an adventure. He picked the back corner of the store between the shelf and the wall and spread his blanket on the floor. "You got a nice little self-sufficient thing going on here. I think I am gonna pitch my camp right over here. Yeah, this looks good."

Miguel just looked at him like he wasn't sure whether Stiles was making fun or in earnest. Then he retreated back outside to put his tools away.

Stiles went outside again as well to retrieve some things from his jeep. He thankfully never traveled without his pillow and he grabbed it from the back seat, tucking it under one arm. In his other hand, he gathered up what was left of his snack food, which was jumbled about in the wheel well on the passenger side of the car. A couple of Slim Jims and a half full snack-size bag of chips was all he had left, but it would have to do. _Better than nothing, right?_ Stiles tried not to focus on how unhappily his empty stomach protested this assessment.

Off this his right, he saw Miguel enter the little diner instead of going back into the store. A moment later, a light sprang on inside. The diner door had been locked earlier. Stiles hadn't been in there yet and his curiosity was piqued.

He went back inside the station long enough to drop his pillow off atop the blanket in his little sleeping area and then headed back out and around to the diner entrance. He found it to be just as old as the station. Three booths with badly cracking upholstery sat along the wall by almost completely boarded over windows. A long, single counter top edged in chrome ran down the other side, separating the tiny dining area from the equally tiny cooking area just behind the counter. Only three of the original counter stools remained, their seats cracked like the booths, but servable. Whatever equipment the kitchen had once boasted the only item still functioning looked to be the large hot plate, the rest of the cooking area was now filled with stacks of canned soups and vegetables and boxes of dry goods. A small mini-fridge was wedged into the space like an afterthought and in a shocking second nod to modernity, there was also a microwave sitting on the far end of the counter.

Miguel had squeezed himself dexterously into the small area of the kitchen that was passable and was standing in front of the hot plate, presumably making himself supper.

Stiles closed his eyes, the scent of chili dogs hitting him hard and reminding him forcefully of just how hungry he was. He should probably go take his own dinner over in the store and try to get right to sleep, but that suddenly felt like a very lonely thing to do. The darkness outside seemed to compound the sheer emptiness of the countryside around and his own sense of isolation. He hadn't even realized he was feeling that way until now he found that he really didn't want to be alone just at the moment. The draw of company was more powerful than the torturous smell of food.

Sliding onto one of the stools at the end of the counter nearest the door, Stiles gave Miguel a slightly hesitant smile when the other man glanced up towards him.

"Hey... is it okay if I sit here?"

Miguel shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Stiles resolutely tried not to look at the hot dogs the mechanic was browning on one side of the skillet, nor the lovely mess of chili he was stirring around with a large metal spatula on the other. Maybe... maybe tomorrow he could buy a meal off his host. Miguel couldn't object to that, right? Right now, however, Stiles was conscious of how little the other man had wanted him here and of having claimed self-sufficiency on the food front, so he gamely placed his small meal on the counter in front of him and set to it.

Miguel glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow. Stiles smiled back bravely and ate a potato chip as if to demonstrate that all was well. _They were just two guys, eating their dinner, and he was totally not coveting his companion's amazing smelling meal, nope._ Stiles finished the few remaining chips in one go and shook out the crumbs into his mouth. The Slim Jims he pealed and ate slower, but they still disappeared much too fast. _Stupid teenage metabolism._ He knew he wasn't _really_ starving, and he should buck up and get over it, but he was _so_ hungry.

Stiles was staring so absorbedly at the empty jerky wrappers on the counter that he jumped in his seat when Miguel set something down in front of him with a clank of ceramic on metal. Stiles was surprised to find that it was a plate containing two hot, steaming chili dogs. He quickly shot the other man a questioning look. Miguel was busy setting down a second, similar plate for himself on the counter in front of the next unbroken stool.

"I made too much, you might as well have some," Miguel mumbled as he came around the counter to take his seat.

Stiles eagerly grabbed the generously filled plate, which in no way could have been an accidental amount of leftovers, and pulled it closer. He inhaled the scent appreciatively and snatched up one of the hot dogs. "Oh my God, this is _amazing!_" he enthused around a hurried mouthful of food. "Dude, you are awesome! Thanks!"

An actual smile played about the mechanic's lips as he watched Stiles delightedly tucking into his dinner. He dropped his gaze to his own plate when Stiles looked over at him, simply giving a small shrug in reply.

They ate together in silence for a few minutes, and surprisingly enough Miguel was the one who broke it first. "So, what exactly are you doing out here, anyway?" he asked, eyeing Stiles as the boy licked some escaping chili from his wrist.

Stiles swallowed a bite of food, tongue darting out to lick his lips but missing the large smudges of chili in the corners. "Going to see the Rainbow Canyons," he answered simply.

Miguel's eyebrows climbed skeptically. "_Now?_" he inquired. "All by yourself? This really isn't the best time of year for it. You know they're called the Rainbow Canyons because of all the flowers that bloom in the basins, right?"

Stiles nodded. "And some of the ravines have only one color predominate," he concurred. "There's a red canyon, a yellow and sort of orange canyon, a blue canyon, and sometimes a purple canyon, so it's not really a full rainbow, but yeah."

"Okay, but you do realize that nothing is blossoming this time of year?" Miguel pressed incredulously. "They won't bloom until the rains come, that's why this is the _off season_. Right now they're not the _rainbow anything_, they're just canyons, like every other canyon out here."

Stiles was picking at the last third of his remaining hot dog, looking fixedly at his plate. "Oh. Well... I'm sure the canyons are still nice."

Miguel eyed him strangely. "Well, you can't be a botany student if you didn't know that, so why come all the way out here by yourself to see them, anyway? You a photographer or something?" He said it like he doubted that.

Stiles shrugged. "No. It just seemed like a thing to do. My mom came up here with my dad before I was born and she used to talk about it sometimes. I pass the exit signs all the time. I always thought I'd detour one day to check it out. Now... well, I haven't got anything better to do, so why not? I'll probably still go have a look, I mean, I came this far, right?" he spoke lightly and dismissively, but there was a taint of defensiveness to the explanation that hinted at there being more to the story than he wished to tell.

"If that's what makes you happy," Miguel responded amicably enough, although it seemed to Stiles there was a flicker of that wary suspicion again behind his dark eyes, like Miguel didn't entirely believe him for some reason. That was weird, because why would he lie about something like this? Either Miguel was kind of paranoid, or maybe Stiles was and he was misreading suspicion when his host was just trying not to laugh at his stupidity or something. That seemed more likely.

Later, when Stiles was bedding down in the little nest he'd made for himself in the corner of the shop, he saw Miguel go into his bedroom, then come out again with a long barreled shotgun over his shoulder. He frowned in concern, but the other man made a reassuring gesture when he saw Stiles watching him.

"Don't worry, nothing's wrong," Miguel told him. "I'm just going to take a turn around outside to make sure everything's quiet and there's no idiots out there looking for trouble again. I'll be back in a few, you should sleep."

Stiles settled down, wrapped himself in his blanket and attempted to do so. He was exhausted and his stomach was full, so it should have been easy, but the strange surroundings kept him hovering at the edge of half-wakefulness for a while. Finally he started drifting towards a true, deeper sleep and was therefore only vaguely aware of it when Miguel finally returned from his rounds, shotgun still over one arm. He thought as sleep claimed him, that he'd never seen anyone quite so proactive about potential vandalism before.


	3. Chapter 3

Miguel worked on the jeep for most of the following day. By about mid-afternoon the engine was a completely disassembled spread of parts and Stiles was familiar with just about every inch of the station from the mangled remains of a free-standing payphone which looked like a fairly recent victim of bad driving, to the thick patch of weeds halfway up the hill behind the station that looked kind of like George Washington if you tilted your head and squinted a lot.

Exploring the burnt-out section of the building had entertained him for a good part of the morning, but by now he had exhausted all avenues of self-entertainment and was getting seriously antsy. He didn't have his phone to play on, there was no internet connection for his laptop, and Stiles was bored silly.

He watched Miguel for a while, but even that couldn't hold him forever and to be honest the sprawl of parts to which his beloved jeep's internal organs had been reduced made him kind of queasy. He also wasn't sure whether he should be worried about the fact that Miguel frequently stopped to consult a couple of old books full of diagrams and mechanical looking information, which he had laying open on the ground beside him.

"Sooo, mechanic-ing... do you, like, go to school for this kind of thing, or are you self-taught?" Stiles asked curiously as he fiddled with the radio dial. Miguel had brought out a beat up 90's style radio/tape player combo to use while he worked and Stiles discovered that it managed to get a decent number of local stations.

"I know what I'm doing, if that's what you're asking," Miguel replied without looking up. "I've been working on cars since I was in high school."

That didn't really answer Stiles' question. "How long ago was that?" he inquired. He would guess that Miguel was maybe a couple of years older than him, but no more.

"You ask a lot of questions," the mechanic observed instead of answering. "And quit playing with the radio."

Stiles stopped scanning the stations and let it settle, a familiar car insurance jingle humming brightly through the speakers. "Have you ever rebuilt an engine before?"

"Not this model, but yes," Miguel's voice was growing increasingly impatient.

"Did you grow up around here?" Stiles asked, flicking a drop of spit onto a rock sitting in the sunlight just outside the protection of the station's overhang and watching to see how long it took it to evaporate under the scorching sun. He'd grabbed a change of clothes out of his car earlier and was now wearing a relatively fresh tee under a plaid over shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It was warm even in the shade and Stiles flapped the over shirt a little to create some air movement.

Miguel didn't answer. The bead of moisture was already nothing more than a dark spot on the dusty rock. "Have you ever been to the Rainbow Canyons?" Stiles tried again. The radio advertisements ended and a twangy country ballad started playing. Stiles automatically reached over and twisted the tuning dial again, this time landing on some station playing a Journey song Stiles knew by sound but couldn't name.

Exasperated, Miguel shoved out from under the car and leaned up on his elbow. "Stiles, I can't work with you constantly chattering at me. Do youwant to be stuck here forever? If not, shut up, let me concentrate and stop messing with the radio before I break your arm."

Stiles scowled at him, dropping his arms and gesturing in annoyance. "Oh my God, okay," he said, exaggerating the word. "No need to be all grumpy cat, I can take a hint."

"Can you?" Miguel asked flatly, his tone dripping skepticism as he pushed back under the car.

Stiles made a face in his direction and sulked over behind the gas pumps. Picking up some of the loose gravel collected there, he tossed it one stone at a time out into the dazzling sunlight. He tried to see if he could get them as far as the broken phone booth and after a few tries he had the range, the stones pinging and plinking off the metal and glass as he scored.

"Are you breaking something?" Miguel's muffled, long-suffering voice held a hint of warning.

"No," Stiles grumped back at him. The next rock caught the edge of a half-broken glass pane dangling from one side of the wreck, completing its demise with a very audible shattering sound. "Uh... nothing that wasn't already broken," Stiles amended quickly, dropping the rest of the stones he was holding.

"Go inside," Miguel ordered. "Now."

Stiles spread his arms incredulously, heat and monotony making him extra tetchy. "What?! I'm not talking; I'm not touching the radio. Go inside...geez, man, you're not my Dad."

Miguel shoved out from under the car again and the look on his face made Stiles swallow any further remarks. "No," the mechanic fairly growled. "I'm the guy who is trying to fix your car so you can get the hell out of here before I kill you. Go inside before I change my mind about one of those things."

Stiles stomped into the station, knowing he was acting stupidly petulant and only partially able to care. "OKAY, I'm INSIDE," he announced from the doorway. "Dude... come on, there's nothing to do in here. How do you seriously not die of boredom?" He was starting to get a headache and suddenly realized that what with everything that had happened, he'd not taken his Adderall since yesterday, which explained a good deal about why he felt like crawling out of his skin. Oops.

Stiles started to go back to his jeep, to retrieve the medication from the glove compartment where he'd stashed it for traveling, but Miguel saw him and stopped him with a glare, pointing back towards the station. His dark eyes said he'd just about had it.

"You. Back inside."

"But I just need to –"

"No."

"You don't under –"

"No."

"OH MY GOD WILL YOU JUST –"

Miguel pushed up to his feet and took a few meaningful steps towards him. He may not be that much older than Stiles, but he had several inches on him in height and was significantly more muscular.

Stiles back-pedaled quickly under the look being leveled at him, scrambling back through the station door. "Uh, yeah, okay, it can wait."

Miguel looked after him for a moment as if to make sure he was actually staying put before returning to the jeep. "There's some books and magazines in my room, you can borrow what you want as long as you put it back," he offered.

Stiles unenthusiastically accepted the suggestion and trekked back to Miguel's tiny bedroom in search of new sources of entertainment. He really wondered how Miguel could stand living like this day after day. It would drive him insane. It was so quiet and empty out here. All they needed was a whistling wind blowing around the station and a few dancing tumbleweeds and he'd feel like either the ghost in a ghost town or the survivor of some apocalyptic disaster movie.

The small bedroom was pretty spartan. A sleeping cot and a tall set of storage shelves were the only pieces of furniture and there was barely room to maneuver between them. The shelves held a few sets of neatly folded clothing and a lot of books. There was also a small, inexpensive looking portable television with an antenna. It got three fuzzy local channels, none of which were playing anything remotely interesting, so Stiles turned it off and examined the well-worn books instead. There were a lot of them. Either someone else had left them behind or Miguel was a reader. Stiles suspected the latter, since seriously, the guy had to do something alone out here all day.

There were an unsurprising number of books and manuals relating to cars and car repair as well as several outdated issues of popular mechanics, but Miguel's library did not run only to the technical. There were a lot of sports magazines, a couple of biographies and fair selection of both popular and classic fiction, as well as few more surprising items including several volumes on philosophy and one on medieval history. Stiles found half a dozen college level textbooks sitting together on one of the lower shelves, along with a couple of spiral bound notebooks.

Miguel was probably college age, but Stiles assumed he mustn't be in school since most universities were just going into the final stretches their spring semesters at this time of year. The books suggested an interest in education, so maybe he was just taking some time off? Or maybe he wanted to go but couldn't afford it? Stiles doubted that being a mechanic at a closed station in the middle of nowhere was really anyone's intentional life goal. In all likelihood, something had happened to disrupt whatever other plans Miguel had once had.

Stiles knew all about that. Life had a way of being both capricious and sometimes cruel. Not wanting to think about that, he turned away from the textbooks and the unwanted, still much too raw feelings they evoked. He seriously needed a distraction. Or his meds. Or both. Both would be good.

To be honest, by the time Stiles was this restless he was usually unable to concentrate enough to read, but there were a couple of sports magazines he might thumb through. He wondered, however, if Miguel had any... well... slightly more entertaining reading. Kneeling by the bed, Stiles looked underneath, just to see. That's where he would hide his magazines if they were of the interesting variety. Not that he'd ever actually had any, this was the internet age after all, but Miguel seemed like a print and paper kind of guy and anyway, he didn't appear to have a computer.

In truth, Stiles was almost more interested in finding out what kind of material Miguel found stimulating than he was in the actual object of his search. He sadly wasn't holding out much hope of finding gay porn hidden under the mattress, but oh well, Stiles could enjoy a girly mag too; there were advantages to being bi.

There were some sneakers and other junk shoved under the bed, but no porn, or magazines of any kind. Stiles frowned, pushing things aside and lifting the mattress a bit. It seemed rather impossible to him that Miguel wouldn't have something. He was out here completely alone for goodness sake. As he re-settled the mattress, Stiles' eye caught on something. This area had originally been a store room, and as such it appeared to have been plastered with much less care than the rest of the building, or perhaps it had simply not been re-plastered and painted as much as the rest had. Whichever was the case, the cinder block construction of the walls was clearly visible, cracks tracing the outlines of the thick squares. It got worse towards the lower portions of the walls, which had clearly seen much abuse over the years. The plaster had completely crumbled away from one of the cinderblocks directly beneath the bed and it was slightly off-set from the rest wall in a way that drew his attention.

Bending closer and twisting his head around to see better, Stiles confirmed that the block was indeed protruding farther forward than those around it. Something about the way it looked made him reach under and give it an experimental tug to see just how lose it was. The block shifted easily. Getting a better grip, Stiles pulled with his fingertips, wiggling the cinderblock back and forth as he inched it forward, until it suddenly pulled clear of the wall entirely, revealing that it was only about a quarter as thick as he was pretty sure such a block should have been. The back end of it looked like it had been broken away, creating a small space about the size of a shoebox behind it when it was pushed into place.

Driven by curiosity, Stiles automatically checked the little cubby. Reaching inside, he found that there was, in fact, an old shoe box there, shoved into the gap. He drew it out and pulled off the worn lid with an undeniable feeling of childish excitement as he wondered how long this had been here and what vintage secrets it may contain. It quickly became apparent, however, that the box did not date back as far as most of the station and was instead a much more recent addition.

It was an odd assortment of items that greeted him, made all the stranger by their mundane ordinariness. There was nothing in here that one would expect to find secreted away in a hidden alcove. The collection of memorabilia looked to him like it would be much more at home in someone's attic or the back of a closet.

There were blank postcards for obscure attractions like fancifully named waterfalls and the world's largest chair, along with a keychain shaped like a wolf howling at the moon and a small plastic dinosaur with ridiculously large eyes. A number of baseball cards depicting players from the previous decade were wrapped in an aging rubber-band in one corner. In another, there was a small stack of photos, placed face-down with drug store watermarks running across the back. There was also a badly tarnished and slightly warped bronze baby shoe that looked as if something seriously bad had happened to it. There was writing on the side. Stiles lifted it out and rubbed his thumb over the blackened metal around the lettering, squinting to try and make out the inscription. He couldn't read the date, but could discern what looked like the name "Cora".

When he lifted the shoe, he saw that there was a framed 5x7" photo in the bottom of the box. It appeared to have been partially burned. The glass was cloudy and blackened in one corner, the metal frame melted and fused to the glass and what remained of the charred photo inside. A sharp line of demarcation ran diagonally across the framed image, as if some other object had partially shielded it from complete destruction. Stiles shifted the contents of the box away from the undamaged section of the photo enough to see the smiling faces of what appeared to be a family. A good portion of the photo had been lost, but Stiles could still make out a man, a woman, a young teenage girl, a pre-teen boy and a toddler in arms, probably another girl although the blackening made it hard to tell what the youngest child was wearing. He didn't recognize any of them, but when he turned over the handful of other photos resting in the corner of the box, Stiles instantly realized to whom this odd collection belonged.

There were a couple smaller, wallet-sized photos at the bottom of the stack. One was a school photo of the teenage girl from the burned picture, the other was a baby picture of another girl. They could have been the same person at different ages, but Stiles suspected they were instead the older and younger sisters from the photo. The rest of the small stack of photos were more candid, personal shots that looked to all have been digitally self-printed at different times at various stores which offered that service. Most of the photos were of different places and scenery, but often they included a teenage boy and a young woman who could have been late teens or early twenties. The woman was clearly an older version of the teen in the other photos, making it reasonable to assume that the boy was her younger brother, also older now. The teen's dark, curly hair was longer and the angles of his face a bit softer and more rounded, but Stiles could clearly see Miguel in the features of the young man in these photos. There were almost no pictures of the brother and sister together. Most of the photos had only one or the other of them standing in front of something, or caught in some awkwardly compromising expression or position, making it likely that the two siblings had been the lone photographers in this particular set of memories.

Stiles flipped through the few dozen photos, watching the siblings age incrementally through the lens of the camera, the woman's hair style changing twice. When he hit the end however, Miguel was still clearly much younger than he was now and Stiles found nothing that bridged the gap in time to the present. It was as if the box were a time capsule, cut off at a certain point with nothing more beyond that having been worth recording.

As he reached the end of the photos, Stiles also began to realize, albeit seriously belatedly, that this box was clearly one of Miguel's personal belongings, which he probably had no business poking through. He was just about to replace the photos when a terse, angry voice from behind him made him almost jump out of his skin.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Stiles jerked in surprise, accidentally scattering the photos across the box and the floor as they slipped out of his fingers. He twisted around to find a very irate looking Miguel glaring down at him from the doorway of the small room. Oh crap.

"Sorry, uh, I, um... there was a block, and I mean, it was out a little..." Stiles scrambled to pick up the pictures he'd scattered and put them away properly, his flustered attempt at explanation not finding a proper start or making much sense.

Miguel grabbed him by the back of the shirt, yanking him away from his attempt to rectify what he'd done and dragging him bodily to his feet. The sudden movement made Stiles drop the photos he'd started to pick up all over again, the smiling face of the dark haired woman staring up at him from the floor at his feet for a moment before he was spun around and slammed into the wall by the door, faced now with a very un-smiling Miguel.

The mechanic was even stronger than he looked and Stiles squirmed ineffectively against his grip. He didn't seriously try to break away because he knew that would only exacerbate the situation at this juncture. Much previous experience with getting shoved around by bigger boys in high school had taught him that.

"Look, man, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be going through your stuff... well, I mean, not the stuff you didn't say I could go through anyway. I was -" Stiles' attempt at explanation was made more difficultly when Miguel's forearm jammed across his throat, cutting down on his air supply.

"Okay, ooookay, now I can't breathe. Ease up, big guy, ease up. Geez, over reaction, much?" Stiles choked out, struggling a little more earnestly now. "I'm sorry, I was just looking for magazines, okay? Like you said!"

Distinctly un-placated, Miguel glowered at him from a few inches away, which, honestly, would have been hot if it wasn't also kind of scary at the moment. "Which you thought I might have under my bed?" he demanded incredulously.

Stiles blinked at him. "Um... yeah?" he said slowly, thinking the reasons why pretty obvious.

Miguel did not appear to think the same. He jammed his arm up harder under Stiles' chin, making the younger man squeak and struggle up onto his toes as his eyes watered from the pressure and lack of oxygen. "What were you really looking for?" he demanded.

"N-Nothing!" Stiles tried to get out, wanting to protest that he hadn't been looking for stuff to steal or whatever Miguel thought he was up to, but he couldn't get enough air. He seriously couldn't breathe and his brain was flooding his body with a yammering of panicked signals to that effect.

Grabbing Miguel's arm and yanking while he twisted his head away, Stiles threw himself sideways in an attempt to wrench out of the other man's grip. His back found the open air of the doorway, sending him stumbling backwards. Miguel caught at him as he fell away. Stiles flailed, striking a mostly unintentional glancing blow to the mechanic's shoulder. Miguel hit back instinctively, the punch catching Stiles upside the head and putting him down, hard.

Stiles landed in a sprawl on the floor of the outer room. He narrowly avoided bashing his head on one of the empty store shelves, but barely noticed around the ringing pain emanating from his throbbing cheekbone.

"Why are you really here?" Miguel demanded, standing over him with clenched fists and fixing him with a livid glare.

"What do you mean, why am I here?" Stiles truly didn't understand the point of the question. "You're fixing my jeep, dude, remember?!" He rubbed his hurting face, unable to quite comprehend how things had gone so wrong so quickly or why Miguel was suddenly acting so weird and unreasonable. He understood the anger burning in those dark eyes just fine, however.

Fearing that this was about to turn into a beating, Stiles scrambled desperately backwards on his elbows when Miguel approached, crab-crawling until he ran into the shelves behind him and could go no farther. He cast about desperately for something he could use to defend himself, but there wasn't anything in reach besides a few dusty bags of candy, and death by Twizzlers was not really much of a fear-inducing threat.

"Whoa, whoa, let's just calm down and breathe for a minute, okay? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, honest, I didn't mean any harm," he pleaded. He cringed, arm instinctively curling over his head when Miguel stooped towards him, but the bigger man simply grabbed him by his shirtfront and dragged him back to his feet. To Stiles' surprise, Miguel proceeded to roughly pat him down, checking his pockets but not taking anything.

"Hey, uh... so, this is weird... you wanna tell me what's going on, because - ow!" Stiles broke off as he was spun around none too gently.

Holding him by the scruff of his neck and shoulder, Miguel half dragged, half forced Stiles across the store and out through the door. Releasing him with a shove, he all but threw him against the side of his jeep.

"Get out," the mechanic ordered darkly. His gaze darted around their surroundings as if searching for other expected threats.

Stiles looked incredulously at his gutted jeep and the engine parts scattered across the tarp. He spread his arms wide in exasperation. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?! Be reasonable!"

Miguel disappeared inside the station, and Stiles hoped he was going away to cool off, but after a minute the other man returned, now carrying the shotgun that Stiles had seen him with the night before. A cold chill iced through Stiles' stomach when the gun leveled at him. His eyes widened, hands automatically going up. Holy crap, it was just his luck to end up trapped in the middle of nowhere with a gun-toting psycho.

"I said get out," Miguel repeated through clenched teeth, finger resting on the trigger. Stiles' father had always told him you didn't put your finger on the trigger unless you were prepared to pull it. Stiles wasn't sure if Miguel had been trained the same way, but he hoped not to find out.

"So you did," Stiles agreed, swallowing around the suddenly urgent dryness of his mouth and trying to keep his voice even. "And trust me, I would really love to, but my car's in like, a million pieces, dude. What do you want me to do?!"

Miguel cocked his weapon. "Start walking."

Stiles goggled at him, hands gesticulating wildly in disbelief. "Walk?! You said it's like, 60 miles to the nearest city, it's a billion degrees out there and I haven't seen another car go by since yesterday. I can't... dude, it's not possible; I won't make it."

"Not my problem," Miguel replied stonily, gun never wavering. "Go."

"Are you fucking crazy?!" Stiles shouted, nearly as angry now as scared. None of this made any sense. "You want me gone, okay, let me use your phone and I'll find somebody to come get me, or -"

Miguel tipped the shotgun up a little and squeezed the trigger, sending the warning round over Stiles' head before quickly pumping another into the chamber and re-sighting on his chest. "Go. Now."

Stiles ducked, scrambling around to the other side of his jeep for cover in the wake of the shot. "Okay, okay! Chill out, chill out!"

Miguel followed him around the vehicle and Stiles quickly backed away some more, the other man's presence driving him out from under the shadow of the station's overhang, towards the road. Stiles blinked under the sudden intensity of the sun, but was left with no choice other than to stumble out onto the deserted, well-baked asphalt.

"Can I at least get my hat?!" he shouted at the man whom he was now convinced was some kind of lunatic. In answer, Miguel blasted another shot into the ground by his feet. That got Stiles moving pretty quickly. He didn't want to press his luck by finding out whether Miguel was crazy enough to actually shoot him or not. "Okay, OKAY! FINE!" he seethed, scrambling away as fast as he could and wishing there was more cover out here. There were trees up the hills, but none by the road in this stretch.

Shoulders tense as if expecting a bullet at any moment, he jogged away as fast as he could, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder until he was finally out of range, the gas station dwindled to toy size in the distance behind him. Then the heat and exertion caught up with him all at once as it finally overpowered his flight reflex and he bent double, gripping his knees and gasping for breath as perspiration ran down his face and stung his eyes.

Straightening up after a moment and wiping his face, Stiles tried to pretend that perspiration was the only thing making his eyes sting. The truth was he was so mad and frustrated he could have cried. That wasn't going to help anything, however. He needed to keep moving. He couldn't go back, so his only choice now was to do as Miguel had said; to try to walk his way out and hope to God that some passing car might eventually show up and take mercy on him.

* * *

Several hours later, that had still not happened. Stiles was crying now and he didn't even care because his life just totally sucked, okay? He was so hot and thirsty his head was swimming. His throat and nasal passages felt dry and raw from breathing the hot, arid air and his lack of medication was only serving to worsen his emotional state.

He'd removed his tee and used it to cover his head, rolling down the sleeves of his over shirt and buttoning it up against the scorching sun. He felt kind of like Iron Man in the desert, and he tried to tell himself he'd get through this, but the problem was he knew there were no helicopters coming, no one who would be looking for him. Not until it was much too late. Hell, nobody even knew where he was, which was his own damn fault of course, as usual.

He knew the sun would eventually go down, even now the shadows were beginning to lengthen; but he had no water, no idea where to find any, and no real hope of being picked up or of reaching civilization before dehydration eventually overcame him. He was generally a fairly optimistic soul, but right now he was practically keeling over from heat exhaustion and his spirits were in the toilet.

Stiles snuffled and angrily wiped his throbbing eyes, trying not to keep wasting precious moisture with tears, but the truth was he was pretty sure at this point that he was going to die out here. His Dad would never know what had happened to him and Scott would find some way to blame himself. Would they guess something bad had befallen him? Or would they all just think he ran away rather than face returning? Perhaps they would suppose him cruel enough to intentionally leave them forever in doubt like that as the years passed by, while all the while his bones were out here, bleaching in the desert and turning into a tourist attraction in this God-forsaken armpit of hell.

The unexpected, growing sound of a motor approaching from behind him sent a sudden, desperate thrill through his flagging body. He spun around towards the sound, excitement pumping through him in dizzying waves as he hurried out into the middle of the road, desperately waving his arms. He was taking no chances that whoever was coming might not stop.

"Hey! Hey!" He croaked as he flapped his arms at the approaching truck. Then his relief faltered abruptly, fear and uncertainty beginning to creep back in when he realized he recognized the modified pickup / tow truck. It was from the station. It was Miguel's.

Stiles scrambled back off the road, hesitantly backing away as the vehicle pulled to a stop when it came level with him. He didn't know what to expect and his heart rate accelerated, the wild fluxes in adrenaline taxing his already worn out body and setting his hands to trembling.

Miguel was driving with the windows down and he looked across at Stiles through the opening for a moment in silence. "Get in," was all he finally said.

Stiles hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and rubbing his palms on the thighs of his jeans in indecision as he tried to decide whether whatever Miguel might possibly want to do to him could be worse than slowly dying of heat stroke and dehydration. "Why should I?"

Miguel raised his eyebrows slightly. "Because you don't want to die?" he hazarded, "and I have water."

Both arguments were valid and the latter was practically irresistible to Stiles at this point. He was so thirsty he probably would have sold his soul for a drink. Moving almost before he'd consciously made the decision, Stiles crossed around the idling truck and climbed in the passenger side.

There was indeed a mostly full bottle of water sitting in the cup holder between the seats, condensation beading on its plastic skin and making it look practically angelic. It wasn't cold any longer, but it was blessedly cool and wet and Stiles downed the entire thing in one long, continuous swallow. He then played nervously with the bottle as Miguel pulled a u-turn in the middle of the deserted road and drove them both back towards the station. He couldn't help feeling again just how alone he was out here.

"Thanks, um... you know, if it wasn't drugged or anything... in that case not so thanks," he mumbled a bit anxiously, gaze darting between the bottle he was twisting about in his hands and the man sitting beside him.

Miguel looked honestly baffled and incredulous at that suggestion. "Why would I drug you?"

Stiles looked at him side-long. He pulled the shirt off his head and used it to wipe his face before resting it on his leg. He shrugged, not really sure himself. "To make it easier to bury me in the desert? Or, uh, have your wicked way with me? I don't know, man! You're the crazy person."

Miguel somehow managed to look both amused and annoyed at the same time. "Stiles, I'm not going to kill you or - or rape you, for God's sake."

"Then why did you come after me? What do you want? You realize you forgot to take my wallet?" Stiles was trying to sound glib, but his voice was too quiet and his grip on the empty water bottle a little too tight. His hands were still trembling from heat exhaustion and nerves. Miguel's brows furrowed further as if realizing for the first time that his companion was truly scared of him.

"I realized I'm an idiot," Miguel muttered a bit abashedly through his teeth, staring at the road ahead. "I figured out what you meant... about why you were looking around under my bed."

Stiles wondered if he was imagining it, or if there really was a faint hint of rosy blush dusting the other man's well-defined cheeks. He blinked in surprise. "It took you that long?" he blurted. "Oh my God, dude, where do you usually hide your porn?! No, wait, I don't want to know, especially if it's out in the barn behind the decapitated corpses or something."

Miguel shot him an odd look. "You have a very disturbing mind."

"Oh yeah? Well I'm not the guy waving guns at people, giving off serial killer vibes and conveniently living in the most isolated spot on earth," Stiles retorted.

"I'm not a serial killer!"

"Well I wouldn't expect you to admit it..."

"Holy fuck... look, I was... I was mad, okay? I over-reacted. I don't like people going through my stuff."

"So I gathered." Stiles' tone said exactly how lame an excuse he found that to be.

"Finding you snooping like that was... disturbing. When I cooled down, I decided maybe you did make an honest mistake, and... and there's no way you could have walked your way out of here. I couldn't just let you die," Miguel said defensively. "Although I'm seriously reconsidering that option," he added.

Stiles revived a bit on the drive and when they got back to the station without incident, he was reluctantly willing to concede that his host might not have immediate murder on his mind, but he was still uncomfortable with the situation. Maybe Miguel was just bi-polar or something, but he didn't really want to go through another bout like that again.

"Soooo ... you know, if you don't really want me around, I can just call somebody to come get my car," he suggested hesitantly. "You know, like you wanted me to at first? So I can just, like, get out of your hair? Um... but, like, of course I'll pay you for what you already did, you know?"

Miguel shrugged, his expression heavily guarded, as if he had some call to be wary of Stiles rather than the other way around. "Sure. If that's what you want to do, go ahead."

With a cheerful and completely fake smile, Stiles let himself into the station and picked up the phone on the counter. He lifted it to his ear and something felt immediately wrong, but he was so used to cell phones that it took him a long moment to realize exactly what was the matter. There was no dial tone.

An unpleasant chill went through him, informing him that he'd seen way too many horror movies. Stiles jiggled the receiver and tried pressing a few buttons without getting any response. Miguel had followed him in and was just standing there, staring at him. Stiles swallowed. "Um... it doesn't work," he said, gesturing to the phone.

Miguel did not look surprised. "Hasn't since I started working here," he agreed instead. "I think something with the wires got screwed up in the fire and they never bothered to fix it, or maybe they just didn't want to keep paying for the service. We always used the payphone outside if we needed to make a call, but -"

Stiles hurried outside before Miguel could finish or his own reason catch up with him. He looked around, feeling an almost claustrophobic sense of entrapment. Then he remembered the twisted wreck of metal and glass.

Miguel caught up with Stiles a few moments later as the younger man stood forlornly by the edge of the wrecked payphone he'd been pitching rocks at earlier. "I suppose it's too much to hope that this works anymore, either?" he asked morosely.

Miguel shook his head. "Nope. Those stupid kids I scared off the other night pealed out of here in such a hurry they ran it over. I was going to drive into town and report it, but then you showed up."

Stiles wiped his palms on his jeans again. "Okay... well, can I borrow your cell then?" he asked hopefully.

Miguel gave him a flat look. "Do you think I would be driving into town to report the broken phone if I had a cell? Don't you have one?"

Stiles shook his head, the reality of his situation settling on him like a queasy kind of calm. He was almost as completely isolated from the rest of the world as if he were on a deserted island. "No," he muttered. "I lost mine."

Miguel shrugged. "Well, that settles that, then. I guess you can't call anybody."

Stiles chewed his lip, eyeing Miguel suspiciously as they both retreated to the shade of the station once more. "You suggested I make a call when I first got here, why would you do that if you knew the phones didn't work?" he asked, unable to keep a note of accusation out of his voice as he poured himself a glass of water from the cooler.

Miguel looked at him like he was mentally deficient. "Well I assumed nobody in this day and age would be driving around these empty back roads without a cell phone. I mean, okay, I live here, but seriously, who else uses pay phones anymore? I expected you to have your own, of course."

Stiles had to admit that made sense. "Okay, well, will you drive me into town, then?"

Miguel glanced out the window towards the slanting shadows outside. "Yes, but not today. It'll be dark in a couple hours and the truck's lights are shit. It's too dangerous to be driving around out here in the dark and I can't stay overnight in town. I can take you tomorrow."

Stiles still felt kind of suspicious, but he agreed. What other choice did he have?

Miguel headed back outside. Stiles remained inside and downed several more glasses of water, until his stomach ached and sloshed. A not unfamiliar sensation of semi-depressed fatigue finally drove him back outside in search of his long overdue medication.

He was surprised to find Miguel out there, bent over his gutted jeep and giving every appearance of continuing the work that had been interrupted earlier. He eyed the mechanic with no little confusion as he retrieved his pills from the car and took his usual dose. "Adderall," he explained simply when he saw Miguel glance over at him. "I have ADHD." It was probably an over-share, but he did that sometimes when he was uneasy.

Miguel's expressive eyebrows gave a little lift upward. "Well, that explains a lot," he remarked before returning his attention to the jeep.

Stiles scowled at his back. He didn't see how Mr. Titanic-Mood-Swings-That-Involve-Firearms had any right to comment. "Why are you still working on my car?"

Miguel shrugged without turning. "Why not? There's nothing better to do. Besides, maybe I can get it fixed and back together for you and then you can drive yourself out of here."

It was Stiles' turn to raise his eyebrows. "Oh. You think that's likely?"

Miguel paused, then kept working. "Not very," he said honestly. "At least not tonight, I lost too much of the day, but I might as well try."

"Oh. Um. Okay." Stiles had to admit that Miguel's continued efforts on his jeep went a long way towards making him feel a little less like he'd gotten trapped in some kind of Silent Hill spin off. If Miguel was planning on eating his brains in the night, he probably wouldn't keep working on his car, right? Maybe the guy really did just overreact. He obviously didn't spend a lot of time around people, maybe he was just awkward by nature.

Stiles meant to just sit down in the corner and rest for a minute, but exhaustion pulled him under despite the stimulants he'd taken. The next thing he knew Miguel was shaking him awake, telling him dinner was ready and asking if he wanted any.

He missed lunch today due to everything that had happened, but freshly awakened, Stiles felt groggy and almost hung-over. He wouldn't have thought he was hungry, except that Miguel had brought the food over with him from the diner and the tantalizing scent of macaroni and cheese quickly awakened Stiles' appetite. The rest of him followed a little more slowly, but after several sleepy mouthfuls of the delicious cheesy mush he began to revive.

Stiles wolfed down the mounded plate Miguel gave him and asked if there were seconds. There wasn't, but Miguel obligingly went and heated up another batch for him, leaving Stiles a full mug of cold water and a bottle of coke, with instructions to finish both. By the time he returned, Stiles was feeling much more alert and worked through his second plate a bit more slowly, but with no less zeal.

Miguel, already finished with his own supper, watched him with a faint look of amusement. "Well, I guess you've decided I'm not trying to drug you anymore," he commented.

Stiles grinned up at him, feeling much more companionable and forgiving now that he had a full stomach, his proper dose of medication and a nice nap. "Well, I figure if you were going to do something awful to me, you probably would have done it already," he said practically as he shoveled down his food. He was not overlooking the fact that his companion had a potentially dangerous side, but he felt that was fairly true of everyone under the right circumstances. "So, either you're a really twisted serial killer playing some kind of incredibly unfathomable game with me, or you're just a bit manic depressive and not great with people. Going with the latter since it doesn't leave me dead. Can I have another coke?"

Miguel actually grinned at this, albeit a little bemusedly. "You're pretty strange," he observed as he handed Stiles the fresh Coca Cola bottle.

Stiles gave him a wry look as he twisted off the metal cap. "Pot. Kettle. Blackness." He waved the bottle in a gesture that seemed to say he couldn't be bothered to pull himself from his meal long enough to fully complete the adage. "You know." He pressed the cool bottle to the slight bruise forming on the side of his face where Miguel had hit him earlier, the chill feeling good.

Miguel nodded as if he found that a fair point. He frowned a little when he saw what Stiles was doing with the bottle, a guilty look flittering across his features for a moment before he hid it away and found a reason to busy himself elsewhere.

As Stiles was finishing up, Miguel glanced at the old clock on the station wall and disappeared into his bedroom for minute before returning with the little portable TV Stiles had seen in there earlier. He set it up on a box near the counter, extended the antenna and wrapped a metal wire around it that was hanging off the edge of the desk. Stiles realized the wire ran across the desk and up the adjacent wall. It seemed to be there for exactly this purpose. Miguel had clearly jury-rigged this method of antenna-boosting to allow him better reception on the small set. A minute or two of fiddling with the little TV eventually tuned in an only slightly distorted baseball game, which Miguel must have known was happening because he appeared to have been looking for it.

Leaning against the wall and crossing his legs, Miguel looked over at Stiles as if daring him to complain about either the viewing choice or the fact that he was watching it in the outer section of the store, which would potentially make it difficult for Stiles to go back to sleep until he was done. He needn't have worried. Stiles had already grabbed his pillow and blanket and come over to join him. Sitting on his pillow like a cushion and leaning against the waded up blanket, Stiles settled down beside his host, squinting eagerly at the small set to make out the teams on the field. "Oh, hey, Tigers vs. Twins, I totally forgot that was today. Turn it up!" he urged.

Miguel seemed pleased by the reaction and complied, cranking the volume a little higher and turning the small screen more to the left so they both had a good view.

During a commercial break, Miguel left and returned with a small tube of lotion which he offered Stiles for his sunburned nose and chin.

"Oh, cool, thanks," he said easily as he applied it to the tender skin. He'd been able to protect most of himself with his shirt, so it wasn't too bad. He'd definitely had worse.

Miguel just nodded, looking a little guilty again but not saying anything. The game came back on, sparing them any further awkwardness.

"You like baseball?" Stiles hazarded a somewhat obvious question while the man at bat was walked to first base. He remembered the baseball cards in Miguel's shoebox, although those looked to have come from his somewhat younger years. "I like baseball," he added without being asked. "Oh, oh, yeah baby!" he broke off when a new play on the screen captured his attention. "Come on, come on... YES!" he pumped his fist as the Twins got in a run and loaded another base.

Miguel grinned wryly at him. "Hey, you're rooting for the wrong team."

Stiles gave him a puckish expression. "Says you. You a Tigers fan?"

Miguel just shrugged. "They're okay."

Stiles shook his head. "Your enthusiasm staggers me."

Miguel eyed him. "Well they're not exactly the Yankees, but they've been doing pretty well this season."

"The Yankees?" Stiles made a face. "Like they're a standard for anything. Now if you'd said the Mets..."

This time Miguel made a face. "The Mets haven't won a Championship since 1986," he pointed out.

"Which only means they're due," Stiles protested. "They're finding their stride!"

"Uh huh," Miguel said skeptically.

"What about that amazing double play last year, huh? Did you not see that? It was a thing of beauty man. Beauty," Stiles said passionately.

Miguel grinned a little and inclined his head. "Yeah, okay, that was pretty good."

"Right?" Stiles agreed excitedly, going on to recount a lengthy list of his other favorite plays by the team in question, the talk comfortably ebbing and flowing around the action happening in the current game.

"I get it. I get it, Stiles, you really like the Mets," Miguel observed during another commercial break, his eyes twinkling with an amusement that made him almost border on seeming friendly in a way that was completely at odds with his behavior earlier.

"Dude, you have no idea," Stiles sighed. "If only they could get it together, you know? I think the best Christmas gift I ever got, well, aside from an Xbox that one year, was an actual baseball from the 1986 game, signed by all the players. I totally flipped out. My dad is awesome. I mean, it's not like they were in the ultra ridiculously expensive category, but still a lot more than I'd ever expect as a gift, you know? But he got a really good deal 'cause he knew a guy who knew a guy and, well, it's a long story, but that was so cool of him."

Miguel nodded. "It was," he agreed genuinely. "Older balls are harder to find, collectors often don't want to let them go. If they ever manage to win another series, it will be even more valuable I imagine." He was intentionally being a bit provoking, but Stiles didn't rise to the bait this time.

"Yeah," he murmured softly instead, looking unexpectedly both sad and wistful. A moment later, he shook off the odd melancholia again and changed the subject. "So, you been to any games, live?"

Miguel had, and they traded baseball stories for a while in between watching the game. Cheering the good plays, groaning over the bad and making mocking commentary about amusing blunders made for a nice, neutral conversation. Stiles was perfectly capable of carrying on the conversation all by himself, but Miguel put in every now and again. The older man didn't share much in the way of personal stories initially, but Stiles' constant, encouraging prattle eventually coaxed a few anecdotes from him. It was interesting because the mechanic seemed almost a different person when he spoke of the past , telling of his mother zealously defending his right to cheer for the "wrong" team when he was six and the home run ball he caught when he was 14.

Talking about the past must not be something Miguel did very often, however, because he clammed up pretty abruptly after sharing those few snippets, acting as if he felt he'd said too much. Stiles didn't press him or let the silence turn awkward. Instead, he jumped back in with another story of his own involving Scott and an amusingly awkward situation they'd ended up in due to Scott's generally horrifying lack of interest in this particular sport. Miguel slowly relaxed again and Stiles got the feeling that behind the other man's reticence, he was in fact starved for company and conversation. Unsurprising, if he'd been out here alone for months. That right there was enough to make anyone act a little crazy, Stiles decided.

Miguel broke out microwave popcorn somewhere around the 5th inning and by the sixth they were throwing it at the TV when the umpire made a highly dubious call, or at least Stiles was and Miguel just laughed instead of stopping him. Stiles was a little surprised by what a good time he was having. His companion was almost as into baseball as he was, and he greatly enjoyed talking to someone who could argue minutia with him. As the evening progressed, the friendly comfort of shared interest slowly wore away a good portion of the awkwardness and tension that had been created by the events earlier in the day.

Stiles still wasn't entirely sure what to make of Miguel to be honest, but by the time the game was over he found that at least he no longer felt anxious about the idea of sleeping under the same roof with him. Even if Miguel did take off to prowl around in the dark for a while with the shotgun again before bed. In some universe that was surely a perfectly normal action. Nope. He wasn't worried at all.

* * *

**A/N: I know about as much about baseball as I know about fixing cars (approximately zilch) so please forgive any hugely stupid errors I may have made, 'kay? ... and yes, sorry, I was borrowing a bit more from Dylan and Hoechlin than Stiles and Derek on the baseball thing, but hey, it's an AU, I can do that. :)**

**Don't judge Derek too harshly for the way he acted in this chapter. He does have some pretty significant reasons and we'll get to know them eventually.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Kind of a short chapter this time because I needed a good place to break. If all goes as planned, the next chapter should end up being fairly... interesting. :) I made a little manip to go with this chapter, it's on my tumblr, you can find a link to it on my FFN bio if you want. **_

* * *

Stiles woke early the next morning, although apparently not earlier than Miguel whom he could hear moving quietly about outside. Staring up at the cracked ceiling of the station, Stiles considered his options for the day ahead. He'd asked Miguel to take him into town today, but weirdly, he was no longer sure he wanted to go. He'd been so stressed out yesterday he hadn't been thinking clearly. Now, in the fresh light of a new day certain facts and details were clamoring for his attention and attracting his interest.

Miguel had freaked him out for a bit, no denying it, but with a little distance and perspective on what had happened, Stiles was beginning to find the situation more interesting than frightening. If Miguel were consistently angry and dangerous that could just be his personality, but the thing was that he wasn't. Stiles had seen glimpses of a different side of him too often to ignore.

Something was going on with Miguel; something more than just mood swings and bad people skills. The mechanic's deliberate isolation, his hidden box of memories and violent paranoia were intriguing. Details and impressions spun around in Stiles' head, the familiar, siren song of loose threads and mismatched fragments waiting to be connected into something that made sense filling him with a tingling excitement that would have had Scott rolling his eyes and groaning if he were there. There was a mystery here; Stiles could feel it in his bones and he rarely walked away from a mystery.

Finally roused by the smell of frying bacon, Stiles shuffled out of the station with a yawn. He found Miguel making breakfast in the diner. As usual, the other man had made enough for both of them.

They ate in silence until Miguel finally broke it. "I can take you into town after you're done," he said simply. He was looking at his food rather than at Stiles and his expression gave nothing away. "I'll need to report the broken phone and the vandalism while I'm there, so we should get an early start. Sorry I can't bring your car, but I can drop you at Tyson's garage, they're pretty good and should be able to help you out."

Stiles twirled his fork between his fingers and rubbed his ear. "Yeah... about that... I was kind of thinking... if you're still willing to fix it, maybe... maybe we could just stick with the original plan instead? I'll try to stay out of your hair. I took my meds this morning and people tell me that usually makes me less annoying," he said candidly and without shame.

Interesting mystery aside, the plain truth of the matter was that he'd been doing the math in his head and any other course of action was not really financially feasible for him at this point. He had two credit cards in his name, but both of them had a pretty low limit because his dad wanted to make sure he didn't get himself in trouble. Accidentally running up a hefty bill on his dad's credit card by not realizing how much his MMORPG in-game purchases were adding up to when he was younger probably had something to do with that. Considering his dad was paying the bills so he didn't have to work while he went to college, Stiles had no complaints about the rules. It kind of put him in a spot now, though. If Miguel refused to let him stay, he didn't know how he was going to make his cash and available credit stretch enough to pay for the work Miguel had already done, plus staying in town, plus getting what would no doubt be a very expensive tow from here to there, not to mention whatever the new garage would end up charging him to finish the repair job. The cost of having someone else do the repairs alone might be more than he could cover. He'd have to call his dad, and wouldn't that just be the perfect start to a conversation he already didn't want to have?

Miguel looked surprised by the suggestion, a confused mix of emotions flittering behind his eyes that left Stiles unsure whether his companion was pleased, suspicious, or just startled. Trying to read the man was enough to give one a headache, although the view was certainly nice.

Miguel seemed to be having some kind of internal debate, but eventually he shrugged. "Okay, I guess we could do that. If you stay out of trouble and don't go poking around," he added with a meaningfully stern look.

Stiles nodded earnestly holding up his hand to indicate scout's honor, even though he'd never actually been a scout. "Best behavior, promise. You don't come at me with a shotgun and I won't mess around with anything you don't want me to. But... uh... maybe you can tell me, like, where the safe zones are? And like... how much longer we're talking about? Because I don't do great with the boredom thing. I might die. Seriously, I might, and that would be pretty awkward 'cause then you'd have to do something with the body so people didn't get the wrong idea."

Miguel was looking at him with an incredulous half-squint he seemed to be perfecting just for Stiles. "Yeah. That would probably be bad," he said dryly. "Don't think I could fit any more bodies out back. I'd have to find a new place to bury you."

"Oh my god, was that a joke? He jokes! There is hope for you yet," Stiles said with a grin, clapping Miguel on the shoulder. "That... uh, it was a joke, right?" he added with a slightly more nervous expression.

Miguel rolled his eyes and got up off his stool. "Wouldn't you like to know," he said instead of answering, giving Stiles a smile that showed a little too much teeth.

Stiles fumbled a bit as he got off his own stool, brushing his ear again and tucking one hand under his armpit as if not knowing what else to do with it. "Yeah, so, that probably shouldn't be so hot," he said aloud before he could think to filter his thoughts.

Not appearing to know how to respond to that, Miguel turned away, focusing on gathering up their dirty dishes.

Left at loose ends as Miguel stacked the dishes and put away the food, Stiles started picking at one of the cracked stool covers, absently peeling off a long strip of vinyl without really being cognizant of what he was doing.

Miguel grabbed his hand, stopping him. The grip wasn't painful, just firm. And warm. And it kind of did something to Stiles' insides that he tried not to show. Apparently, being somewhat uncertain just how dangerous Miguel might or might not be had exactly zero impact on how attractive he found him.

"Can you not go five minutes without wrecking something?" Miguel asked with exasperation that was very faintly tinged with amusement, or at least that's what Stiles hoped it was.

"Um... yes?" the tonal question mark at the end of his response probably didn't help Stiles' case. "Sorry, I told you I don't do the inaction thing well. Maybe I should do the dishes?" He tucked both hands under his armpits as if to keep them out of trouble. He wasn't sure why he kept making such an incredible idiot out of himself except that this always happened when he was around people he found attractive. His entire high school experience with Lydia Martin being an excellent case study in this unfortunate phenomenon. It was probably why his dating history was still so abysmally small and uninteresting. Few people wanted to continue more than a casual acquaintance once they spent enough time with him - unless they were giant douches with ulterior motives, of course. This, he had come to understand this the hard way. It was okay though. He told himself he was like the Mets. He'd find his stride eventually. He believed that. Just not today, it seems.

"Okay," Miguel agreed to his offer to do the dishes. "Hell, if it will keep you out of trouble, when you're done how about you help me with the repairs? Another pair of hands might be useful and I can show you some stuff. If you're serious about continuing to nurse this car along, you should probably know some maintenance basics or it's going to keep costing you a fortune." The offer was made in an off-hand tone that suggested the mechanic did not expect his companion to be interested in the proposition, but Stiles brightened visibly.

"Really? Awesome! That sounds great," he agreed enthusiastically. Normally, mechanical things did not interest him all that much, but it was much better than having nothing to do. Besides, working closely with Miguel? He could definitely be down with that.

Most of the rest of the day was spent with Miguel working on the car and teaching Stiles as he did so. It ended up making the process slower rather than faster, but neither man seemed to mind. By the end of the day Stiles' hands, arms and formerly white tee were smudged with oil and dirt, but he felt accomplished and content in a way he'd not felt since before his world and his plans had all started sliding off their axis.

Miguel was actually a very patient teacher. He seemed to enjoy sharing his craft with someone else and Stiles was surprised by how much the work had managed to engage his attention and focus. He knew he'd never be cut out for this profession, and would probably forget half of what he'd learned by the end of the week, but there was a certain element of puzzle solving and deductive work that went into the process that was not unappealing to him.

He tried to subtly work a little more information out of Miguel over the course of the day, but Miguel was good at being evasive and became tense whenever Stiles pressed a little too hard, so he eventually backed off, intending to put some thought into a better tact to take with his investigation. He kind of liked being around Miguel and preferred not to make him close off.

The engine was beginning to take shape once more, but the jeep was still more than half gutted when they finally knocked off for the evening.

That night, after dinner, when Stiles was settling down into his blanket roll, Miguel came over to him. The shotgun resting against one shoulder signaled that he was about to go out for his nightly patrol, a habit Stiles was unconsciously finding less odd the longer he was here. Stiles sat back up, curious at what the other man wanted.

"The repairs are taking a lot longer than I thought they would," Miguel admitted, regarding Stiles with a look of mild concern. "So, I was thinking, if you want, we can drive into town tomorrow. I really should report the vandalism soon and you can use a phone there to call anyone that might be worrying about you."

Stiles gave a little shrug, pulling one knee up to his chest and picking at the edge of the blanket with his fingers. "Well, I'm happy to ride along if you need to go, but I don't really need to call anybody. No one's going to miss me, not for a while anyway." He shrugged and shook his head, as if shaking off a cloud. "Hm, maybe I shouldn't have said that, huh?" he remarked much more lightly, looking up at Miguel with a wry little smile. "What with me being in the company of a serial killer and all."

Miguel just rolled his eyes.

"What about you?" Stiles asked when it looked like his companion was about to leave. "Do you really never get any visitors out here? No girlfriend ... boyfriend ... uh, or other friends or family wanting to check up on you?" He smiled brightly to hide his inner wince. Smooth, Stilinski, real smooth. "Doesn't it ever get lonely, all this time out here with no human contact?" he added quickly, trying to cover his poor attempt at sussing out Miguel's relational status and orientation with an equally poor attempt at flirting.

Miguel gave him a slightly suspicious look. "No," he said, the hint of coolness in his voice unpleasant after how relatively friendly he'd been all day. "I do quite fine by myself." Turning away, he left to do his rounds before Stiles could think of anything else to say.

Stiles lay back down with a sigh, unsure if that reaction was Miguel soundly rebuffing his tentative advances, or if it was just Miguel being a signal-deaf clod, like usual. He hoped for the latter enough to think it might be worth trying again and maybe being a little less subtle. The guy was hot, okay? Sure, he was a little mysterious, but that was kind of attractive too and he was probablynot actually a serial killer either, which was another point in his favor. They were out here all alone, after all... if it was the perfect set up for a horror movie, then it was also the perfect set up for a porno.

Minor problems with this nice little fantasy included the fact that Miguel seemed as sexually aware of him as if Stiles were a fence post, and he didn't know if the mechanic even liked guys to begin with. The odds were probably against him, but that wasn't going to keep Stiles from prodding until he found out. What else did he have to do? Miguel had to be lonely and bored out here, right? Granted, under normal circumstances Stiles wouldn't have realistically thought he could get anywhere with someone who looked like that, but he felt that the sheer lack of other options ought to give him at least a bit of a chance. It wasn't like he was looking for something serious. A hot and dirty fling with a gorgeous, slightly crazy mechanic in the backside of nowhere would probably be more therapeutic than visiting the currently non-Rainbow Canyons. It would certainly be a lot more fun.

The problem with this train of thought was that Stiles had a very active imagination, so he was now envisioning all sorts of scenarios wherein Miguel somehow, improbably turned out to be insanely attracted to him and they had wildly hot sex in all sorts of ways. The fact that he'd never actually had wildly hot sex in any of those ways before in real life did nothing to dampen the arousal that the fantasies created, and Stiles quickly found he had a rather pressing issue that needed to be dealt with.

Not wanting to make a mess on the only blanket he had to use, Stiles slipped out of the station and around the back to where the bathrooms were for a little private time. Unfortunately, he found the bathroom doors locked. He'd gotten used to them being left open during the day, but realized with frustration that Miguel must lock them up at night.

Never let it be said, however, that Stiles Stilinski was not a resourceful problem solver. It was very dark, but the night was clear and the moon almost full, giving just enough illumination for him to make out vague shapes in the blackness. By now, he was familiar enough with the station in the daylight to know what the shapes were even without being able to make out details. There was a stand of trees off to the right of the shed, behind one of the broken down cars that Miguel used for spare parts. The mass of shadows back there created an inviting sense of concealment. Fairly throbbing with need and judging that it wouldn't take very long to solve his little problem, Stiles crept around the car and in between the scattered tree trunks. In the daylight, this would not be a very covert location, but at night, it was almost too dark for him to even see the trees he could feel around him, so it seemed private enough.

Leaning his back against a tree trunk, Stiles eased his erection free of the loose boxers he was wearing as sleep shorts. Taking himself in hand, he stroked quickly and firmly, indulging in semi-embarrassing fantasies of Miguel, here, in the darkness of the trees with him ... pushing him up against the tree and kissing him... pushing him down onto the grass and fucking him...

Stiles shifted against the tree, the rough bark making a soft rasp against his t-shirt and the dry ground underfoot crunching faintly. His breath hitched and he caught his lower lip between his teeth as the crest he was seeking swelled up to meet him. Just at that moment, he heard a rustle away to his right. Alarmed by a shift of movement in the darkness and caught off guard at this very inopportune moment, Stiles came with a soft yelp.

The rustling grew immediately closer, as if drawn by the sound and a second later he was speared by the bright beam of a flashlight. Stiles instinctively tried to retreat, but the tree was at his back and he merely thudded into it with an ungainly flail. Momentarily blinded, it took him a few seconds to realize that it was Miguel on the other end of the flashlight. The mechanic had both flashlight and shotgun trained on him, but they dipped as he also recognized Stiles. He dropped the shotgun to his side completely, but kept the flashlight up, although no longer trained in the younger man's eyes.

Stiles in turn lowered the hands he'd instinctively raised in front of his face to block out the painfully sudden light, trying to blink back his night vision around the glaring, dancing circles temporarily burned onto his retina. Suddenly, he realized he was still standing there, hanging out and completely exposed. A hot flush raced up his throat to his cheeks and set his ears to burning. He scrambled clumsily to tuck himself away and pull his boxers back into order.

"Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD this is so embarrassing. What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on a guy like that?!"

Through the spots still swimming about in his vision, Stiles thought Miguel looked amused, but also perhaps sort of flustered. "I was on my way back, I thought I heard something over here and came to check. What were you doing out here?" he demanded defensively.

Stiles glared at him. "If you can't figure out what I was doing then you really are stupid," he snapped, only realizing after the words left his mouth that he probably should have just said he had had to pee. That would have covered the facts just as well and been far less humiliating. Whelp, too late now. The Stiles Stilinski superpower of making things as awkward as possible struck yet again. This was why he never got laid.

Miguel just stared at him for a moment and then jerked the flash light away abruptly as if belatedly trying to either give Stiles privacy, or un-see what he'd seen, although it was too late for either.

They returned to the store together in silence, Stiles' face still flaming in the cool night air. It wasn't the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him, but it was embarrassing enough. How heavily Miguel had been featuring in his fantasies just now made it difficult to look at him. Stiles was irrationally worried that if he looked at him, Miguel would know and this wasn't exactly the way Stiles wanted to approach the it to hell, couldn't he have just come back a few minutes later?

Once inside, Stiles wordlessly stomped off to his corner. He curled up in his blanket and tried to ignore Miguel completely, but he couldn't resist stealing a glance in the other man's direction once he felt sure Miguel wasn't paying attention to him any longer. Miguel locked up and then turned the station lights off, using the flashlight to cover the short distance between the door and his bedroom.

Stiles watched him pass by in the dim light. He squinted curiously when he thought he saw something, but Miguel was there and then gone too quickly for him to be sure. Was it a trick of shadows and his own wishful imagination? Or was the crotch of Miguel's jeans looking a little strained?


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: __Longer than usual chapter to balance out the short one last time. :) Quite a lot of development happening this chapter and a few telling glimpses into small parts of the mysteries surrounding both boys. :) Only the tip of the iceberg, but we're getting there._**

* * *

Breakfast was surprisingly non-awkward the next morning. Miguel was either pretending last night hadn't happened, or he had truly already forgotten it. Either way suited Stiles just fine. Feelings of self-consciousness and embarrassment could be intense in the moment, but he usually shrugged them off pretty easily afterwards if nothing continued to feed them.

To be honest, there were many times when people seemed to think he _should_ be embarrassed about something he'd said or done and he didn't even get why, so maybe he was just a little deficient in that department. Matt had certainly seemed to think so, but then Matt was _the-giant-douche-who-shall-not-be-named_, so his opinion didn't count. Last night _had_ been plenty embarrassing even for him, no doubt about it, but Miguel wasn't treating him differently and so he decided to consider it no big deal unless he found out otherwise.

They had just finished breakfast and started to work on the jeep again when the rare sound of an approaching motor drew their attention towards the road. A few minutes later, a police car pulled into the station. It parked in front of the diner and two officers in tan uniforms got out.

Both Stiles and Miguel stopped what they were doing and turned towards the newcomers. Stiles leaned against his jeep, automatically noting the officer's names and ranks from their insignia. The senior officer was a tall, elderly black man named Bertrand, and his partner was a slightly rotund, slightly sunburned white man named Landers.

Miguel wiped his grease stained hands on a rag. He gave the officers a small nod of greeting as they approached, but Stiles could see tension in his shoulders. "Can I help you?" he asked them.

Officer Bertrand gave him a small return nod, looking between Stiles and Miguel. "Hey, Miguel. Who's your friend?" he inquired in a half friendly, half professionally prying manner with which Stiles was very familiar.

Stiles gave a jaunty little wave, filing away the information that the officers knew Miguel at least enough to expect to find him here. "Stiles Stilinski, stranded motorist and lucky finder of brilliant desert mechanics," he answered for himself.

Bertrand raised his eyebrows a bit and Landers glanced over at Miguel as if assessing the truth of this statement.

"I am fixing his car," Miguel said simply, giving his head a jerk towards the partially disassembled vehicle in question.

Stiles' eyes narrowed slightly as he eyed his companion. Miguel sounded... _different. _He was acting different cops seemed to accept the explanation, however, and moved on about their business.

"We got a report of a crazy man out here, shooting at folks with a shotgun," Bertrand said in his mildly bland, yet pointed manner. "Either of you know anything about that?"

Miguel's stance tightened further, his lips quirking grimly. His head stayed half-bowed, either respectful or withdrawn depending on how you read it. "Red pickup and black hummer full of wasted kids?"

Stiles stiffened at this as he put the pieces together, feeling suddenly indignant on Miguel's behalf. "Wait, those delinquents come out here, totally vandalizethe station, and they have the nerve to go complaining to the _police _because you had to scare them off?!"

"You were here, Mr. Stilinski?" Bertrand asked, proving he had a good head for names as he un-pocketed and flipped open his notebook.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, sorry." Stiles realized he was going to confuse the situation if he wasn't careful. "I showed up the next day. My car broke down, Miguel gave me a tow and told me what had happened."

"Okay, Miguel, how about you walk us through what happened?" Landers suggested.

Miguel did. He explained that he'd been woken by the sound of the approaching vehicles. He'd stayed inside as long as they weren't causing any harm, but when the rocks started flying and the window shattered he'd gone out to warn them off. The intoxicated and probably high youths did not comply with his warning, instead they started throwing things in his direction until he fired into the air a couple of times. Then they scrambled to their cars and took off so fast they hit the payphone in the dark on their way out.

He showed the officers the boarded up window and the wrecked phone. The tire tracks had faded with the passage of the past few days, but they had cut deeply enough into the earth near the smashed payphone for the grooves to still be visible. Miguel maintained that he had not shot _at _the youths or their vehicles, merely into the air and into the ground to frighten them away.

Stiles grimaced slightly at the recollections this brought to mind, but they flittered away again easily. He was more concerned with making sure the police gave Miguel a fair shake. He felt a bit guilty for being the reason his new friend had not yet been able to make it into town to report the incident himself.

The officers interrupted Miguel several times to get dates, times and other details. They wanted to see the shotgun, which apparently was registered to his employer, and had him repeat parts of his story several times, but to Stiles' relief they seemed fairly inclined to believe him.

"Called it," Landers went as far as to remark in semi-satisfaction to his partner as they exited the station. He was speaking to Bertrand, but didn't seem to care if Miguel or Stiles heard him. "Told you there was a reason we didn't hear a peep of a complaint until Meckler senior came back from Vegas and got a load of his busted up hummer."

Bertrand gave him a wry look that indicated the two men had in fact been in agreement on the topic, but they'd had a job to do nevertheless. He said nothing in response, but Stiles gathered from the exchange that the complaint had probably been the result of one or more of the kids involved panicking and lying to their parents about exactly how and why they'd smashed up their car.

"What about you, Miguel? Why didn't _you_ report it?" Bertrand asked genially, clearly a master of pointed friendliness.

"Couldn't call," Miguel gestured back towards the broken phone.

"And then I kind of showed up and monopolized his time. We were actually gonna drive into town today to do it, but I guess now we don't have to, huh?" Stiles put in, his tone matching Bertrand's level of professionally friendly.

Stiles' upbringing meant that he had a natural inclination to be at ease in the presence of law enforcement and these men seemed fairly laid back, but Miguel was acting so differently around them that it made Stiles feel a little protective all the same. The mechanic's whole attitude and demeanor had changed from the moment Bertrand and Landers had arrived. He was all quiet, respectful _yes sirs_ and _no sirs_ and even his speech patterns had altered. Either Stiles was going crazy, or Miguel had suddenly acquired both a subtle accent and a much more tenuous command of the English language.

Bertrand inclined his head slightly in response to Stiles' half-question before turning his attention back to the notes he was finishing up. "We'll let old man Winnemucca know he needs to get someone out here to assess the damage," he said somewhat distractedly. "If we have any more questions we'll be in touch."

Stiles bet the officers knew the names and business of at least half the people in their jurisdiction. It was a small town cop thing that made him think of home.

Before they left, the officers asked for their IDs, ostensibly in order to add both men's information to the statement they had given. Stiles knew he wasn't legally required to comply in this kind of situation, but he had no reason to refuse, so he retrieved his license from his wallet and handed it Landers. Landers did a double take and squinted at him a little incredulously before shaking his head and copying the information down into his notes. Stiles mostly ignored him, well used to this reaction to his given name and much more interested in how tense Miguel had suddenly become.

Miguel pushed his hands into his pockets, voice impassive as he informed the officers that he'd lost his wallet and was waiting on a replacement ID.

Bertrand and Landers exchanged looks.

"Let me guess, your green card was in there too," Landers said dryly, causing Stiles' brows to furrow in sudden understanding.

Miguel shrugged without looking up, neither confirming nor denying.

Stiles was about to jump in and point out that they couldn't really demand ID if they weren't even charging him with anything, but the officers didn't press the issue.

"All right, son, just give me your name and address," Bertrand said simply.

The mechanic gave his name as Miguel Torres and the address he provided must have been the address of the station, because Bertrand asked if he didn't have any other address, but accepted it when he indicated that he did not.

The officers left, and as their car dwindled into the distance, Miguel turned back to the jeep. Stiles was blocking his way with a distinctly curious and speculative look on his face. "Okay, what was that all about?" he wanted to know.

Miguel, completely back to normal now, gave a one-shouldered shrug. "The idiot kids that trashed the station. Weren't you paying attention?" he asked sarcastically.

Stiles squinted at him. "No, not _that _that, the _other_ that. The sudden accent and your whole chameleon act. You've intentionally got those guys thinking you're an illegal immigrant or something, but you're not, are you?"

"Oh no? How can you be so sure? You realize if you're wrong, you're kind of being an ass," Miguel pointed out as he pushed past Stiles to the jeep.

"Yeah, but I'm not wrong. If you really _were_ dodging immigration, why intentionally go act out a stereotype around the cops when you'd fly under the radar much easier just acting normal? That makes no sense. No, you're pretending you're somebody other than you are and oh my God are you hiding from something?" Stiles' voice had become distinctly excited. "You are, aren't you!"

Miguel shot him a sharp, exasperated glance. "Yeah, Stiles. I robbed a bank. Can't you see how flush I am? A bank robbing serial killer is fixing your car."

"Really?" Stiles asked with unabashed interest.

Miguel huffed out a short, annoyed breath and looked at Stiles as if he really questioned his sanity sometimes. "Don't sound so excited about it. No, not _really_! Look, the only thing I'm hiding from is the IRS. I need every penny I can get and around here people are more likely to pay you under the table if they think you're undocumented. They are also more likely to leave you alone and look right past you. It's a great way to be a non-entity," he remarked with a bit of asperity.

Stiles eyed his companion suspiciously. "I guess that _could _make sense," he said, sounding a bit deflated but still skeptical. "But then is Miguel even your real name?" He squinted. His brain was making a sudden string of frenetic, chaotic connections as was sometimes its habit, and he chased the thoughts aloud, as he was too often _his _habit. "Because suddenly I'm thinking about you cheering the Detroit Tigers the other night and particularly their first baseman Miguel Cabrera. Can't blame you, a lot to admire there, I mean the guy's an awesome pure hitter, career batting average of .320; top of the crop. He's a nine time All-Star and he played for the Marlins when they won the 2003 World Series, but the most interesting part is that his full name _happens_ to be José **_Miguel_** Cabrera **_Torres_**."

It took him a moment to mentally pull all that up, but it helped that the man's high batting average had already put him on Stiles' radar of players who garnered his attention even though they were outside the sphere of his favorite teams. It was an admittedly thin strand to pull, but it made sense to him. He smiled, pleased with his own reasoning.

Miguel did not appreciate it quite as much. He looked at Stiles with incredulous irritation. "What are you, a walking encyclopedia of baseball?! Just because probably nobody else in the world has aweird-ass name like _Stiles, _doesn't mean other people don't share. Those are common names."

"Yes, they are common names, which is what makes them kind of perfect for an alias," Stiles pointed out. He was pretty sure he remembered seeing a bunch of Marlin uniforms in Miguel's baseball card collection, and they'd looked old enough to have been from their World Series year. He was right. He just _knew _he was right. He thought it was smart of his companion to not use the exact name the way the ball player did and he nodded approvingly, thinking it was a good, obscure alias and most people would never make the connection.

Miguel snatched up a wrench, going back to tightening the connections they'd been working on before. "Good grief, it's a _coincidence, _Stiles. With an imagination like yours, you should write fiction. First I'm a serial killer, now I'm a fugitive," he grumbled in acidic tones.

"You could be a fugitive serial killer. They're not mutually exclusive," Stiles pointed out helpfully, but his grin said he wasn't serious - about the serial killer part, anyway.

"Do you want to play spy, or do you want to finish fixing your junk-mobile?" Miguel growled. His expression was dark and he fumbled a bit as he adjusted his grip, then twisted the tool almost viciously enough to strip the nut.

Stiles realized his companion wasn't just annoyed, he was rattled. It confirmed rather than denied his suspicions, but he prudently decided that continuing to press wasn't going to lead anywhere good. "Well, as long as clever tax dodgers don't bury their victims by the highway, I guess I can overlook it..." he said lightly, choosing to pretend for the moment that he believed Miguel's story.

"Big of you," Miguel muttered. "Now get your butt over here and hold this still," he added, gesturing to a connector that was refusing to stay seated. "It keeps sliding."

"Yes, sir!" Stiles saluted saucily as he moved over to take hold of the part that kept slipping free. "My butt is at your disposal." Honest to God, he hadn't intended the double entendre when the words came out of his mouth, but he was happy to roll with it, shooting Miguel a mischievous grin and wiggling his ass more comically than seductively as he leaned over and reached into the engine.

"Oh God," Miguel muttered, rolling his eyes. He didn't look quite so dour as a minute ago though, so Stiles counted it as a win.

The part of the engine that Stiles was trying to hold in place was heavy and awkward to grip at this angle, resulting in it continuing to slip sideways even when he was holding it. He needed to be more directly in front of it, but Miguel needed to be there too.

Miguel frowned as the two ends he was trying to connect slid out of alignment yet again. "I _said _hold it still," he said in frustration.

"Sorry, trying," Stiles apologized distractedly, frowning as he attempted to get a better grip. "Maybe if I can just... a little more this way..." He kept bumping into Miguel's arm and complicating the process further. Finally, with a scowl, Miguel stepped back and pulled Stiles in front of him.

"Just, hold the damn thing still, all right?" he groused, pressing up behind Stiles and reaching around him so he could replace the missing screws and tighten down the connections.

Stiles swallowed, all the blood leaving his head and rushing south as Miguel leaned up full against his back, pressing into him for the few moments necessary to thread the fasteners through the proper holes to keep the whole thing in place. "O-Okay," he mumbled, suddenly breathless and very okay with this unexpected turn of events.

He felt Miguel's chest expand and contract against his back as the other man breathed, the body behind him moving against his as Miguel struggled to do his task from this awkward position. Miguel's hips were pressed against his backside and his breath was incredibly close to Stiles' neck. Stiles wondered if it was physically possible for one's head to explode, because he kind of thought that might happen. His heart was racing and he was glad he was pressed up close against the jeep because his jeans were getting tight.

Stiles honestly wasn't sure if Miguel was innocently oblivious to the reaction he was causing, or intentionally messing with him as a form of payback, but he couldn't say he cared. He wished the task would take forever, because he was seriously in no hurry to move.

Miguel's hands slipped and he pinched a finger painfully, jerking and swearing before he pressed forward even further, trying to hurry up and get the bolt secured.

Stiles bit his lip, ducking his head and struggling to hang onto the heavy, slippery hunk of metal in his hands around the faint tremble brought on by the adrenaline racing through him.

"Hold it still!" Miguel half barked, half growled. The vibration of the words transmitted straight through his body and Stiles all but shuddered.

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, fingers tensing around the greasy metal. Much too soon, and yet possibly just in time to keep him from having a heart attack, Miguel finished his task and stepped back. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he moved to the side to survey his handiwork and finish the rest of the connections that could now be done from an easier angle.

"You can let go now," he said, casting Stiles a wry look. Only then did Stiles realize he was still hunched over, holding onto the bit of engine that no longer needed securing. Stiles uncurled his fingers shakily and Miguel's expression turned a bit concerned. "Hey, are you okay?"

Stiles nodded quickly, trying to smile reassuringly but ending up looking wrecked instead. His eyes were too bright and his face too flushed. "Fine. I'm fine. I'm awesome. Um, I'll be right back," he excused himself, fleeing hastily around back of the station to cool down before he made an idiot out of himself. Well, _more _of an idiot.

Surprise and something else flickered across Miguel's features when he saw Stiles' state in the few moments before he fled. He watched him disappear with slightly furrowed brows, lips twitching as if unsure whether he should smile or frown.

Stiles was bent over, running cold water from the hose over his head and shoulders when Miguel came to find him a few minutes later.

"Hey, sorry, I, um, was getting a little overheated," Stiles babbled sheepishly, looking up from under dripping hair, water trickling pleasantly down his neck and shoulders, his white t-shirt wet through from run-off.

"It's a hot day," Miguel agreed amicably, and for the life of him Stiles couldn't tell if the mechanic was humoring him or serious. There was a bit of color in Miguel's cheeks that could have been from the sun. Or maybe something else. "You should stay hydrated," he added, holding out a cold coke towards Stiles.

Stiles took it gratefully, trying to ignore the electric tingles he felt when their fingers brushed. He was really being so stupid. Then he noticed that Miguel was somewhat surreptitiously taking in the way his wet tee was clinging to him with a little more than casual interest. Maybe it wasn't that stupid after all. _Holy, hell ... was Miguel actually checking him out? Like... for real, and not just in his imagination?_

Stiles liberally dosed himself with the hose, rendering his t-shirt almost completely transparent. He attempted to play it cool, trying hard not to stare at Miguel as he turned off the hose and went to open his soda bottle. The metal twist cap stymied him, however. His flustered, wet hands found no grip on the painful little ridges around its rim. He nearly dropped the bottle, managing to catch it awkwardly at the last minute.

Miguel reached over and took it from him, covering the water slicked cap with the hem of his shirt and twisting the cap off for Stiles before offering it back. "Um, here," he mumbled.

"Thanks." Stiles accepted it with a stupidly huge smile, most of his brain frozen in a jumbled, excited loop of nonsense. _Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit...! _Miguel was totally checking him out and he had no idea what to do with that information. Sure, it didn't really _mean _anything, but it was the first indication he'd had that Miguel might take even the littlest notice of him in a physical sense. Unless, of course, he was just misreading the other man and projecting his own feelings onto him. That was entirely possible, but Stiles' hormones refused to be discouraged by something so trivial as logic.

Drinking his soda too fast, he nearly choked on the bubbles. He took his next sip a little slower, but couldn't stop himself from reflexively drinking every few seconds. It gave him something to do. If he didn't keep himself occupied with his Coke, he'd have to figure out something else to do, and for once his mind was completely devoid of words.

It was slightly maddening. He felt like he had an opening here, and he should say something, _do something_, but he was suddenly worried that anything he said was going to be stupid, because it was _always _stupid. It was a mark of just how attracted he was to Miguel that he was so afraid of blowing it he couldn't speak. That had actually _never _happened to him before, although perhaps it also had a little to do with Matt's scornful voice in his head, telling him there was nothing attractive about it when he acted like a babbling puppy in heat.

Miguel didn't say anything, but he didn't leave either. He'd brought out two Cokes and they just stood there, drinking together until the bottles were empty and they had no more excuse to linger.

"So, we should probably get back to the car," Miguel said slowly after a minute.

Stiles nodded a little too vigorously even though he couldn't help feeling a bit disappointed and upset with himself. "Um, yeah! Car. That. We should do that."

The rest of the day went pleasantly enough and come evening they had finally reassembled the entire engine. Sliding into the driver's seat to test it out while Miguel looked on, Stiles carefully tried the key in the ignition and was almost as surprised as he was delighted to hear Roscoe rumble to life, the engine turning over with a lot less protest than it had in quite a while.

"Yeah! All right! That right there is a beautiful sound," he crowed jubilantly, patting the steering wheel affectionately before leaning out the open door to high-five Miguel. They'd been working on it for so long; it was kind of amazing to see the engine come alive again after having been in a billion pieces like that. Having had a part to play in the process, however small, felt pretty good.

Suddenly, Stiles' flush of accomplishment faded as he realized that his car being fixed meant he had no more reason to stay here. He was going to have to leave. Deflated, he twisted the key, turning the car back off and staring at the steering wheel for a moment. Of course he knew he had to go _eventually_, but he and Miguel were just finally starting to get along... and the truth was, he'd gotten surprisingly comfortable here with Miguel and his weirdness and secrets and grumpy awkward hotness.

Stiles slid back out of the car, trying to hold onto his smile around the ache settling in his stomach. "So... awesome work, really. I'm lucky I found you and this was... this was fun. Thanks." He dug out his wallet and thumbed through his remaining sheaf of $20s, counting out what he owed. Removing a chunk that accounted for the majority of his remaining cash; he folded the bills over and handed them to Miguel. "I think that's right, right?"

Miguel briefly double-checked the amount and nodded. His eyebrows knit a little as he ran his thumb over the crisp, new bills before he tucked them into his back pocket. "You know, Stiles, maybe you're the bank robber," he said a bit sardonically. "You're out here in the middle of nowhere with a wad of fresh cash, in no particular hurry to get back to civilization... where'd you get the money?" The ribbing was good natured, but there was a small, pointed edge to the question.

Stiles laughed, but the shadow that flittered across his features made it ring just a little false. It really wasn't any of Miguel's business, but he supposed after all the serial killer ribbing he'd given the man over the past few days, he deserved that. "Nah, nothing that interesting. I just sold some stuff," he said with a shrug, his vagueness indicating he did not wish to elaborate further. He rocked back and forth on his feet, hands sliding into his pocket as he glanced out at the road and the lowering sun. The deserted ribbon of asphalt snaking away into the hills seemed suddenly even lonelier than it had before.

"You said it's kind of dangerous driving out here in the dark," Stiles said slowly, his gaze returning to Miguel. "So, I guess I should wait and take off tomorrow, huh?"

"Is that a round-about way of saying you want to freeload on me another night?" Miguel asked. His tone was dry, but it didn't sound as if he objected.

"Yes. Because your linoleum floor is to die for; no one makes Cold War era canned chili like you and I must get one more night basking in the general exquisiteness of it all," Stiles replied sarcastically.

"Well, okay then," Miguel agreed, with an honest-to-God little _smile_ that made Stiles feel all quivery inside.

To Stiles' amusement, they did in fact have chili that evening and he couldn't resist teasingly asking which bomb shelter Miguel had dug it out of. Miguel laughed, and that was a sound Stiles thought he could get used to very easily.

"More like the _Shop and Go_," Miguel corrected as he ate, "although there are actually some old bomb shelters out in the woods. I go past one every night when I make my rounds. Maybe next time, I should stop and see if there's anything in there that you might like for tomorrow's dinner," he joked, then stopped dead as he realized what he'd just said.

The understanding that Stiles wouldn't be there for tomorrow night's dinner seemed to settle heavily between them, accompanied by a sudden, awkward silence. Apparently, Stiles wasn't the only one to have gotten unconsciously too comfortable with their temporary arrangement.

Miguel looked away as if he'd made some great, cardinal mistake and Stiles played with the remainder of his food, appetite gone. After another moment, Miguel abandoned his own half-finished meal and rose abruptly to his feet. "I'm going to go do my rounds. You should get some sleep. You've got a long drive tomorrow," he said, exiting the diner without waiting for a reply.

Stiles scrambled off his own stool, biting his lower lip as he watched Miguel disappear. He hesitated only a moment before hurriedly following him out. Miguel was moving quickly. He'd already stopped into the station and was coming back out with his shotgun when Stiles caught up with him.

"Hey, so... um, I'll go with you," Stiles half offered, half informed, nodding his chin out at the slowly darkening landscape. He felt like Miguel was running away. If this was the last evening they were going to get to spend together, he didn't want it to end yet, and definitely not like this.

Miguel frowned, his expression betraying his surprise and uncertainty. "That's not necessary. You should probably stay here."

Stiles was not about to be shaken off. Hands shoving into his pockets, he fell into step with Miguel. "_Sure_ it's necessary. I mean, come on, two eyes are better than one! Wait... I mean, four eyes are better than two?" He squinted; face scrunching as he tried to work out why that still sounded wrong even though it wasn't. "Whatever, you get what I mean," he gave up with a shrug.

Miguel put up a token resistance, but his heart clearly wasn't in it and he gave in fairly easily when it became clear Stiles would not be dissuaded.

The sun was still riding the western horizon, so they didn't yet need the flashlight Miguel had shoved in his back pocket. Long purple shadows traced down the hill behind the station as Stiles followed Miguel up the steep incline. The pine trees grew thicker towards the crest and the older man slid between them with practiced familiarity, silent as a ghost amid the faintly rustling branches.

The dry earth gave way to hard rock and Stiles felt like they were climbing as much as walking. After a few silent minutes of scrambling up and down a series of exposed, rocky ridges, they were back into the trees again. The sun was setting. The humming of insects surrounded them. Stiles had not ventured this far from the station since he'd arrived. The further you got from the road, the easier it was to forget that civilization existed at all. It was pretty, in a wild, harsh kind of way.

Stiles slapped his arms as several of the ever-present mosquitoes found him, but it had been his idea to tag along, so he didn't complain. He had to wonder at the route they were taking, however. There seemed to be nothing but wilderness back here. Did Miguel really expect any threats to come from this quarter? Surely, any trouble was much more likely to come from the road?

"You really think there's much danger of any more idiots showing up? Especially after those cops being out here this morning and the trouble those other kids are probably in now?" Stiles eventually ventured as they worked their way up yet another steep, twisting hillside, this one taller than the last.

Miguel shrugged. "You can never be too careful," he said simply. "And what if those kids who got in trouble decide to carry a grudge and come looking for payback? Never underestimate the evil of which people are capable."

Stiles hadn't thought of that and he nodded slowly. "Huh, I guess that's a good, if rather creepy and disturbing point. You have a very cheery outlook on life, you know?" he joked. He wasn't sure what Miguel's story was yet, but he was willing to bet he was hiding from _something_ and it _wasn't _trouble-making teenagers.

Miguel just ignored him and scrambled up along the edge of another rocky outcropping. Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder on its carry-strap, he used both hands to climb up the remainder of the short cliff face when walking was no longer possible.

Following suit as best he could, Stiles climbed up the rock wall behind him. He moved a little slower because of his unfamiliarity with the terrain, but navigated the climb nimbly enough. It wasn't very far, no worse than the rock climbing wall back in his gym class days. It was a little easier in some ways because it wasn't a completely vertical surface, although he also wasn't wearing a harness now, so there was that.

Miguel reached a hand down to help him up the last few feet when he reached the top and Stiles straightened to find himself looking out at an unexpectedly breathtaking view. From this vantage point, he could see for miles and miles in all directions. He turned in a slow circle to take it all in. Behind them, the rolling hills undulated in alternating swaths of dark trees, sunburned earth and rocky crags. A darker, thicker shroud of green wound snake-like in the distance, probably heralding the existence of a river or some other waterway running through the generally arid landscape. In front of them in the other direction, the landscape was much more barren and open, the rolling hills broken by sharp rises and steep canyons. Imposing mountains towering skyward dominated one side of the horizon, their looming shapes already starting to fade into the growing darkness of night.

Stiles couldn't see the station or the section of road directly around it from here because of the angle of the hills, but he could see the two far ends of the road dwindling away into the distance in either direction. The last rays of the setting sun painted the long, winding stretch of cracked asphalt in shades of pink and orange, making it look like the placid ghost of some long dead river. Nothing moved out there. No dust rose to indicate anyone's approach. No man-made sound broke through the natural background whine and rustle of nature that passed for stillness.

Stiles realized this was a great spot to see if anyone was approaching. Day or night you'd see them long before they arrived. It would actually be easier in the dark, he supposed, when headlights would be the only points of light moving out there in the darkness. Perhaps that was why Miguel usually came here at night. He wondered how long he stayed when he didn't have company to hurry his solitary routines. How long might Miguel sit up here in the dark and watch the road until he felt safe from whatever fears pursued him?

Stiles looked over at Miguel. The other man stood gazing out across the landscape with a distant expression, looking as if he saw everything and nothing at the same time. The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon now, painting the dark haired man's handsome form in sharply contrasting patterns of color and shadow. Stiles suddenly wanted to reach out and touch his sun-burnished shoulder so badly it _ached_. Then the sun was gone and the dark patches merged, making shadows of them all.

"It's a great view from up here," Stiles murmured, although in fact the settling night had obscured all but their immediate surroundings and the spotty, faint glow of light pollution presumably being cast off by a couple of distant cities. Their dim illumination hung on the horizon, just at the edge of sight, like small buoys on the rim of a dark ocean.

Miguel didn't respond.

Stiles rubbed his arms lightly, more for something to do than because of the cooling air. "It's a good spot. You'll see anybody coming long before they get here," he voiced his earlier thoughts, feeling a need to fill the silence. "But ..." A question came to him. "What if somebody came later? I mean, like, after you did your rounds?" Miguel was certainly vigilant, but Stiles wasn't so sure what good this nightly routine really did. He got the feeling Miguel had been doing it since long before this most recent spot of trouble, and yet it apparently hadn't done anything to stop the kids who had vandalized the station. He was tactful enough not to point that out, however.

Miguel shrugged in the darkness, a motion Stiles sensed more than saw. "I used to come up here more often," he admitted quietly. "Now it's just... comforting, I guess. Very little ever changes out here." He turned his head, gaze finding Stiles in the gloom. "Well, until recently," he added.

Stiles couldn't tell if he was smiling. He really hoped he was. Or at least not frowning. "How long have you been here?" he asked quietly, the darkness giving him a senseless urge to whisper.

"Alone? I don't know ... four ... five months?" Miguel answered vaguely. He didn't sound as if he were being elusive, more as if the time simply meant nothing to him. Stiles was struck by that for some reason, by the sense that it meant nothing to the other man because he seemed devoid of those plans and commitments and human ties that made others count their seconds and guard their hours. It could be a peaceful way to live, he supposed, but Miguel didn't seem peaceful to him. He seemed ... adrift. Maybe that was part of what drew Stiles to him, because that was exactly what he felt like right now. His reasons were different, and he wasn't so alone as his companion seemed to be, but there was still a kinship there that drew him just as surely as any physical attraction.

"That's a long time to be alone," Stiles observed, wondering again how Miguel could stand the isolation.

"Not really," Miguel murmured, something lost and empty filtering into his tone. Then he turned and climbed back down the way he had come. He was obviously intimately familiar with this terrain, managing the entire climb in the dark. Stiles was much more hesitant. He paused at the top of the short cliff uncertainly. Coming up in the daylight had been one thing, going back down in the dark was another.

"Um... Miguel...?" he said slowly, reluctant to voice his problem, but his heart suddenly pounding as he struggled to make out where the edge of the drop-off lay in the deepening darkness.

Light sprung up from below as Miguel switched on the flashlight he carried and turned its powerful beam upon the rock face at Stiles' feet. Following the light as it directed his path downward, Stiles turned and climbed back down. Near the bottom he grabbed for a hand-hold that turned out to only be a shadow and slithered the last few feet with a soft yelp.

It was only a small drop and he landed on his feet, but was too surprised to stay on them. The light bobbled and suddenly Miguel was at his back, catching and steadying him before he could go sprawling and possibly end up rolling down the hill behind them.

Stiles leaned against him gratefully, turning and holding onto his arm and shoulder a little more than was probably strictly necessary as regained his footing on the rocky incline.

"Sorry," Miguel murmured, voice very close to Stiles' ear because of their position. "I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have made you do that in the dark."

Stiles shrugged, missing the other's warmth as he pulled away, even though the night was only just beginning to cool. "It's cool, I'm fine," he assured. "That was kind of fun, actually."

Stiles saw Miguel's thick eyebrows go up in the harsh shadows cast by the flashlight. "You have a weird idea of fun," he told him.

Stiles grinned. "So I've been told. So where to, next?" Miguel was usually gone a fairly long while on his rounds, and unless he really was just sitting up here watching, Stiles suspected this wasn't his last stop. You couldn't see the area directly around the station from here, and he felt sure that Miguel must have some other place where he checked those more immediate surroundings as well. It would only make sense.

Miguel looked uncertain. "We should probably just head back..."

Stiles put on a stubborn face, not nearly ready to call an end to things just yet. "No way. I refuse to be the reason you disturb your routine, what if something terrible happens?! Then it would be my fault, and I don't do guilt. Nope. Let's go." He forged off blindly into the darkness down the hill, leaving Miguel to hurry to catch up with him with the flashlight.

"I'm actually really comfortable being in the woods at night," he assured as they clambered over a fallen tree and Miguel guided them towards a narrow canyon. Stiles was kind of turned around now. He didn't remember the canyon from earlier, though, so at least he knew they weren't retracing their steps. "My friend Scott and I used to go roaming around the forest preserve near where we lived all the time when we were growing up."

"Bet you were a handful," Miguel said wryly.

Stiles looked over at him with a grin and waggled his eyebrows. "What do you mean _were_?"

Miguel huffed softly in amusement.

"That said..." Stiles added after a few minutes. "You _do _know where we're going, right? Because I gotta admit I'm completely lost right now." They'd been winding and twisting through the darkened wilderness for what felt like quite a distance.

"I'm not," Miguel assured. "See the outline of that hill over there?" He pointed at what might have been a vague shape in the distance. "The station is back that way. The overlook we're heading for is just ahead."

_Just ahead, _proved to be almost a half hour more of walking, or that's what it felt like anyway. Stiles had no actual way to be keeping track of the time. When they finally got to the place Miguel sought, he promised he'd only be a minute and insisted Stiles not attempt to climb up with him this time. This cliff looked both steeper and trickier, so Stiles only half-heartedly protested, before agreeing to wait at the base. Miguel offered to leave him the flashlight, but Stiles insisted he was fine and Miguel should take it as he would need it a lot more.

Stiles watched Miguel climb until he was out of sight. Then he was alone in the dark stillness of the rocks and the trees. _This wasn't creepy at all. Nope. _Shivering _only_ because the air was now chilly, Stiles wandered around the base of the cliff, mapping his surroundings. A fairly stiff wind was starting to kick up and soon he was rubbing his arms for warmth because he actually _was _starting to get cold. The moon was full tonight and his eyes had had plenty of time to adjust to the dark. Without the flashlight interfering, they adjusted even further. He wasn't about to go wandering off anywhere, but he could see enough to avoid walking into trees as he absently traced the bottom of steep cliff face that probably was part of a canyon if he could have seen the whole area in the light.

Something out of place caught his attention and he carefully made his way towards it to check it out. There was something unnaturally square and blocky looking just ahead, the man-made shape incongruous amid its natural surroundings.

"Stiles?" he heard Miguel call softly from somewhere behind him, indicating that the other man had returned and was looking for him.

"Over here," Stiles called back and a few moments later Miguel approached, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the object Stiles had been trying to make out and showing it to be the old, square mouth of a partially hidden structure buried under the earth at the base of the cliff.

"Oh, hey, is this the old bomb shelter you were talking about?" he asked as he quickly scrambled closer, his interest and curiosity immediately captured.

"Yes. What are you doing? Come back up here," Miguel called, but Stiles ignored him, pushing through a tangle of undergrowth. He climbed over a thick, broken cement wall and dropped down into the inky black space beyond it, now standing in the mouth of the ancient shelter.

Swearing softly, Miguel followed him, and as the flashlight glow increased, Stiles was able to see that the metal door of the old shelter was half off its hinges and hanging slightly ajar. Nature or some other person had broken it, probably years ago given the accumulated rusting.

"It's open," Stiles reported, fearlessly moving forward and tugging to widen the gap until it was large enough for him to slip through.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Miguel warned. "You don't know what's in there and it could come down at any minute."

"Nah, these things were built like tanks, man," Stiles assured as he wiggled through the gap he'd created and disappeared inside. "They were supposed to withstand nuclear blasts, right? Come on; bring the light, its dark as pitch in here."

Muttering something under his breath and clearly going against his better judgment, Miguel followed Stiles through, having to wrench the door a little further back in order to pass his slightly larger frame through the opening.

The flashlight illuminated the small room in sections as Miguel cast the beam about them. The 12x12 room was completely square and actually pretty large for this type of shelter. There was a single bed against one wall and the ruin of what had probably once been bunk beds against another. The remaining walls were all devoted to shelves no doubt meant to hold the requisite two weeks' worth of supplies. There wasn't much there any longer, the wooden shelves sagging and broken. Either the owner had cleaned this place out before abandoning it, or others had been through later on to scavenge.

It had definitely been used more recently than it had been built, given the dozen or so beer bottles littering the floor and the graffiti on the wall. However, the layer of dust accumulated on the bottles suggested that no one had been here in quite a while. There were fluffy mice and rat nests made of leaves and chewed up textiles in the corner that looked pretty recently used, but thankfully no signs of any habitation by larger or more dangerous animals.

It smelled like animal droppings and stale air in here, but fortunately nothing seemed to have found it a good place to die in recent times. Stiles shoved the broken door open a little wider, letting the cool night breeze in to air the place out, which it did with surprising efficiency. This place would probably be sweltering during the day, but in the chill of a spring night in the desert, the respite from the persistent wind was not unpleasant.

"Seems like a really out of the way place to build a bomb shelter. Think it has any connection to the station?" Stiles asked as he crouched down to examine a relatively undamaged section of shelving near the bed. The shelves still held several rows of canned food with rusted and peeling labels.

Miguel bobbled his head ambivalently. "Yes and no. Old man Winnemucca said he grew up out here back in the day, but they eventually moved into town. You can still see the foundation of the old house on the other side of this ridge, a little ways down and closer to the road. This shelter probably belonged to them too," he guessed. Flipping the flashlight lighted end down, he twisted and then slid the outer shell of the handle upward, turning the convertible flashlight into a small lantern that illuminated a general area better than the single beam could. He set it down on the warped dresser at the end of the bed, casting the whole room in dim, but adequate lighting.

"Hey look, here's our chili," Stiles joked, lifting the faded end of one of the can labels and pointing to the old fashioned image of beans on it.

Miguel stooped closer to get a look, shoulder brushing Stiles' as he did so. "Those look more like baked beans," he pointed out.

"Well _excuse _me, didn't mean to offend your picky sensibilities," Stiles retorted. "Some steak and kidney pudding more to your taste?" he asked, turning another can and deciphering its blue and white label. He made a face as he registered what he'd just said. "_Kidney pudding_? Gross! No wonder they left this behind."

Miguel's arm slid casually against his as the other man reached over turn another rusting can towards them and reveal its label. "I don't know, it might go good with our... _fancy all green asparagus_," he read.

"I bet the only thing fancy in _there_ is the mold that's been feasting on it for the last sixty years or so," Stiles opined. "I mean, this stuff has to all be ruined, right? Canned stuff is supposed to keep, like, forever, but these things can't really be good anymore, can they?" he wondered aloud.

"I don't know, but I know one thing, we are _not _opening them up to find out," Miguel said firmly.

Stiles' eyes lit immediately and he started rummaging around them. "Great idea. There's got to be a can opener here somewhere. We can find out."

"What? No! Are you even listening to me? I said _not _to open them! If they _are _bad they probably reek. Some of these have _meat _in them," Miguel protested. "Besides, then what are we going to do with it? We leave it here to draw even more vermin?"

Stiles ignored him, turning to yank open a few squeaky and mostly empty drawers. "But if we don't look, how will we ever know? For science, Miguel, for science," he countered. He gave a triumphant little crow as he came up with a rusting old church key. It wasn't _exactly _a can opener, but it would do.

"Stiles, no. I said, no!" Miguel said half in amusement, half in frustration. He grabbed Stiles' wrist and they ended up wrestling childishly over the pointy bit of rusted metal. Miguel clearly out-strengthened his opponent, but Stiles was quick and slippery and neither of them was being very serious about the struggle. Miguel eventually knocked the church key out of Stiles' hand, sending it skittering somewhere into the shadows as he knelt over Stiles, straddling his thighs and pinning his back against the edge of the sagging old bed.

Stiles was laughing too hard to put up much resistance at this point, his face glowing with the uncomplicated joy of being alive. He allowed Miguel to pin his hands to the edge of the ratty mattress on either side of his head, coughing a bit at the dust their tussle had stirred up into the air. "Okay, okay, you win. _Ungh!_ Get off! Let go!" he laughed, wiggling beneath the other man's hold. The first time he humped his hips up against Miguel it was accidental; the next time not so much.

Miguel was staring down at him with a curiously intense expression on his face. The fact that he was barely four inches away from Stiles' nose made the teen's gut give a pleasant little lurch and caused the mirth in his dancing eyes to shift several shades warmer, into something like desire.

"And what if I don't want to let go?" Miguel asked, ostensibly still taunting him, except for something in his eyes that gave the question a deeper undertone. "What are you going to do?"

Breath shuddering in his chest, Stiles reacted before he could second guess himself, leaning his head forward and lightly dragging his lips along the side of Miguel's jaw. "Anything you want me too," he murmured breathlessly, trying to sound sexy although he mostly ended up sounding hoarse.

Miguel's whole body froze above him, going ridged and for one long moment they hung there, suspended in time. Stiles really thought Miguel was about to push closer, but then the other man was rapidly backing off instead, releasing Stiles and almost scrambling away from him.

Stiles felt his heart sink to his toes because clearly, he _had _been reading this all wrong and now he'd just freaked Miguel out. _Great. _ "Miguel, I-"

"Are you okay?" Miguel asked, cutting him off and offering him a hand up. "Sorry, I hope I didn't hurt you. I ... I got carried away." Miguel's face looked flushed in the dim yellow light. His tone was awkward, almost desperate, but he wasn't trying to get away from Stiles or acting like he had a communicable disease, so maybe this wasn't a complete disaster. Yet.

Stiles took the offered hand and leveraged himself up from the floor. "You didn't. I'm fine. I'm actually a lot more resilient than I look," he promised, struggling and failing to get a line on what was going on in the other man's head. Had Miguel's knee-jerk reaction been on account of his forward gesture, or had the other man completely misread his intentions? Had he somehow thought Stiles was saying he'd do anything to be let go because he was being _hurt_ or something? That seemed like a stretch, and a fairly strange interpretation, but Miguel had proved himself a little dense in the signal department before and Stiles was admittedly terrible at flirting. Maybe he wasn't making himself clear?

Some rational part of his mind told him he was grasping at straws. That Miguel knew _exactly _what he'd meant and was simply trying to pretend he didn't so they wouldn't have to address it, but Stiles ignored that aggravatingly pessimistic little voice because he was too emotionally engaged for rationality. He _wanted _there to still be a chance too much to back down now, even if he was probably going to make a smashing mess out of this like he seemed to do with everything.

"So... can you imagine actually having to live in this place for a couple weeks or however long they thought it would take for the radiation to die down?" he asked with attempted lightness in an effort to break the silence and repair the mood before Miguel bolted. The other man's body language said that was a distinct possibly. There was a weird mix of tension and indecision in his stance. Like he knew he should go, but wanted to stay. Stiles chose to take that last as encouragement.

"Especially since this place looks to have been built for three or four. Not sure how they expected to survive _each other, _much less a nuclear war," Miguel agreed, apparently so anxious to pretend everything was normal that he actually took Stiles' conversational bait, which, honestly, wasn't really at all normal for him.

The small enclosure still smelled mousy and stale, but the arid conditions meant there was very little mold and the fresh breeze wafting in from the open doorway made it a little less claustrophobic than might have been imagined. Stiles really couldn't imagine spending any lengthy amount of time in a place like this without going crazy, but Miguel's comment was too good an opening to not follow up on.

"I don't know," he murmured. "I guess it would kind of depend on _who _you were stuck here with. I could totally go for it, if it was with you." His mouth felt suddenly dry and his voice wanted to crack. He figured nervousness was totally unsexy and he tried to compensate. "I mean, like... I could think of – of lots of things we could do to fill the time..." _Oh God, he was making this worse and worse, wasn't he? _He wouldn't honestly be surprised if Miguel laughed in his face at this point. Wouldn't be the first time.

Laughing did not look to be what was on the other man's mind, however. Miguel's expression was serious and curiously torn. It _did _surprise Stiles when Miguel caught hold of his arms, seeming balanced somewhere between pulling him close and pushing him away.

"Stop it. _Stop,_" the older man whispered hoarsely.

"S-stop what?" Stiles asked breathlessly, captivated by the intense look in Miguel's eyes and his sudden nearness. He wasn't _trying_ to play innocent, but his face kind of did it for him.

"_This_," Miguel practically groaned. "_This_ that you're doing right now; that you've been doing to me for _days_. Stop making me... making me _want _things."

Stiles felt his heart skip. _Days? Miguel had been aware of him for **days**? He never would have guessed that and holy crap, Miguel **wanted **things? That was good, right? It sounded good. _"What kind of things...?" he murmured, and okay, he _was_ playing a little now.

To Stiles' disappointment, the other man released him and turned away.

"Things I can't have," Miguel whispered miserably.

"Why not?" Stiles asked, honestly puzzled. "Look, I know I kind of suck at the flirting and social interaction stuff, and, um, maybe I'm doing this wrong? But... see, I like you?" It was a relief just to get the words out, even if he accidentally made it sound like a question. Trying to be subtle was simply not his thing; it was so much easier to just _say_ what he was trying to get across. "Like... _a lot. A whole lot. _Super big like," he tried to elaborate, all eloquence apparently having fled the premises and reducing his vocabulary to roughly kindergarten.

Miguel was staring at him now. Stiles smiled nervously, licking his lips as he pressed on. "So, yeah, I - I like you and I'd like to touch you, and like, um, maybe suck your dick and do sex things with you? You know, if that's cool?" Stiles' hands flapped in nervous illustration until he jammed one under his armpit to get it out of the way, feeling completely jittery, scared and excited at the same time.

Miguel was still staring at him, something like surprise and uncertainty on his flushed face.

"Uh... you know, if you even like guys, which... you know, I guess I really don't know, and oh God I hope I'm not weirding you out right now, because I suck at reading situations sometimes and I really do like you even if you just wanna be friends, um, assuming you do and that's kind of what's been going on between us, I mean. I don't want you to like be uncomfortable or anything, so if we need to forget this ever happened we totally can..."

Miguel leaned in and cut off Stiles' increasingly panicked rambling with a soft, unexpected kiss. It was only a chaste brush of their lips, but it left Stiles completely mute, his mouth falling open slightly in shock as Miguel pulled away, his dark brown eyes glazed as his gaze followed the older man.

"No," Miguel says quietly, voice still hoarse, but his expression surprisingly gentle and open. "No, I don't want to forget this happened." His hands slid hesitantly up along Stiles' sides, as if testing the motion out.

Stiles grinned exuberantly, relaxing eagerly into Miguel's very tentative embrace and curling his arms around the other man's back. "No way, you like me? Seriously?"

Miguel gave him another little brushing kiss by way of answer. He seemed to be going in for something a little deeper when he suddenly sobered and drew his head back instead, the curtain falling closed behind his eyes once more. He dropped his arms away regretfully. "I do. I like you, Stiles, but I can't... I don't know where you expect this to go."

Stiles leaned in, gripping Miguel's shirt and recapturing him in open-mouthed kiss. He flicked his tongue between the other man's lips. Miguel shuddered against him and leaned into the kiss, chasing Stiles' tongue back into the heat of his mouth with his own in a way that made fire pulse in Stiles' groin and filled his chest with giddy, floating helium. "Preferably ... somewhere ... that involves more nakedness ..." Stiles panted into the warm, wet kisses.

He felt Miguel chuckle against him, but there was still something worried and uncertain in the sound, like it was part choke. Miguel did not try to pull away again, but he leaned his forehead against Stiles', holding the teen's shoulders gently. "This isn't... it isn't _smart," _he whispered, sounding as if he was speaking to himself as much as his companion.

Stiles felt like Miguel almost said it wasn't _safe, _but neither objection held much weight for him at the moment. Hey, he wasn't stupid, he'd come prepared. He had the _safe_ side covered and as for _smart_? Yeah, there was probably nothing smart about hooking up with this hot, mysterious man who was almost certainly hiding from something and whose real name he likely didn't even know. Did he care? _Nooope._ This was probably going to be the most delicious mistake of his life_, so bring it on, baby._

"Maybe not, but I'm okay with that, if you are. I know I'm leaving, and you're staying here and ... I'm ... I'm not asking you to _marry _me, Miguel, or even _date_ me." He shook his head, lips quirking wryly. "It's like ... no strings attached, yeah? If you want to do this, then let's do it, _please. _It's all totally cool, I swear," Stiles promised earnestly. "But... I mean, only if you _want_ to," he added quickly, feeling desperate enough to beg but not wanting to pressure Miguel into anything he had reservations about.

Miguel laughed silently again, a low, soundless rumble in his chest, but this time it was a happier sound. "Of course I _want _to," he murmured, as if that had never been in question. Gentle, callus-roughed fingers caressed up the side of Stiles' neck, cupping his jaw and tilting his head back a little. The angle gave Miguel better access to Stiles' flushed, parted lips and the slick heat of his mouth - access of which he took full advantage.

Stiles groaned into the kiss without meaning to, hands gripping at the back of Miguel's shoulders as he pushed his body flush up against him. There was no _of course _about it for him. He wasn't used to being wanted, not like this, not by someone he wanted so much in return. It felt like this mythical thing that he hadn't realized could actually exist in real life, in _his_ life.

There was so much he wanted to try, he wasn't sure what to do first and he fumbled a bit, trying to do too much at once. He rocked his hips forward, grinding his jeans against Miguel's, the other man's belt buckle catching on his zipper. He slid his hands down Miguel's sides and pushed them up under his shirt, feeling the warm, muscled skin beneath and feeling so giddy he was in danger of starting to shake. _Oh my god, ohmygod, OH MY god. _

Stiles tugged the shirt up Miguel's midsection until the other man got the idea and grabbed the back of the tee, pulling it off over his head and setting it aside on the old dresser beside them. Stiles' hands were on him again almost before he'd finished. The teen kissed and licked his way across Miguel's pecs and shoulders in an exploratory manner while his fingertips caressed the other man's well defined abs. The eagerness with which Stiles' mouth worked across his companion's skin gave away just how long he'd been thinking about this and how much he'd been wanting to do it.

Stiles felt Miguel inhale sharply when he lightly sucked one of the man's nipples into his mouth. He played his tongue lightly against the hardening numb and Miguel's fingers dug into his sides. Then Miguel was tugging insistently on his own shirt and Stiles obligingly left his self appointed task long enough to quickly tear the tee off over his head. He paid no attention to where he dropped it, because Miguel's hands were sliding across his skin now, strong fingers tracing his breastbone and brushing across his own nipples while a hot mouth kissed the side of his neck.

Stiles pressed his eyes shut, breathing hard through his mouth. It felt like fire was pounding in veins and pooling in his groin. He was so worked up and aroused that he was only a few steps shy of coming in his pants just from making out and humping. That would be too embarrassing for words, but the way Miguel's hips and his jeans clad erection kept rubbing up against his own was making the danger very real. Needing remove himself from direct friction, Stiles dropped to his knees and reached for Miguel's belt. He undid the silver buckle and popped the top button with eager, slightly trembling fingers, pausing to grin up at his companion before continuing.

Miguel gazed down at him with a kind of glazed rapture on his face that made Stiles fumble quickly to undo his fly the rest of the way. He hooked his hands in the waistband of Miguel's jeans and underwear, sliding his fingers under the elastic. He paused.

"This is really okay, right? I mean, you're okay with it?" he whispered, a small, gun-shy part of him still a little afraid that he was somehow badgering the other man into this simply because he wanted it so much. It was hard to believe his feelings could be reciprocated and that Miguel wasn't either just humoring him or outright messing with him. _That _was a blow he wasn't sure he could roll with very easily. Not this time._ Please don't just be letting me make a fool of myself so you can mock me. _

Stiles' head hesitantly lifted, his gaze seeking Miguel's again for reassurance. He really didn't think Miguel was like that. He had been gruff and abrupt at times, but never intentionally cruel. The look on the older man's face was all the reassurance Stiles needed. There was no uncomfortable acquiescence or malicious lie in his eyes. There was just lust, excitement, amused confusion and an unexpectedly soft spark of affection that seemed to dive into Stiles and course through him, warming him from the inside out like gulping a hot beverage on a cold day.

Miguel's fingers combed through his hair and curled behind his ear. "Stiles, trust me, this is _so much more _than _okay_," he murmured, breath coming raggedly as he traced the shell of his soon to be lover's ear. "But you don't have to do anything you don't - " the reassurance was cut off by Stiles eagerly pulling the pants down his hips and taking the man's freed erection in his hands.

"Want to?" Stiles finished for him with a cheeky smile, his fleeting fears put aside as his enthusiasm took over once more. He leaned his head forward, brushing his cheek along one side of Miguel's hard length before following the same path with his mouth a moment later, swiping his tongue lightly across the soft, heated skin. Miguel _shuddered _and Stiles felt a thrill of heat and power course through him like electricity. "Oh, trust me, dude, you have no idea how much I've been wanting to do _this._"


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: So... porn happened, lol. Not fading to black, hopefully no one minds. 0:) Please note that this chapter contains sexual content... okay, yeah, who am I kidding, it's pretty much smut from start to finish. If you don't want to read that, please, please, please skip this one. Also, I made another little picture for this chapter, it's on my tumblr and you can find the direct link to it in my FFN bio.**_

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Pressing hot kisses against the toned stomach in front of him, Stiles fumbled blindly in the pocket of his jeans for a condom. His kneeling position didn't make it easy to get his hand in there, neither did the fact that he was severely distracted by all the naked flesh in front of him and couldn't be bothered to pull his attention away long enough to really focus on what his fingers were doing.

Fingernails digging into slippery foil he finally yanked his hand free, coming up with one condom packet between his fingers and accidentally sending five others scattering across the floor beside him. _Oops. _Maybe he shouldn't have stuffed quite so many into his pocket earlier, but Miguel had almost caught him trying to slip them out of the glove compartment of his jeep before dinner and he'd just grabbed a handful and shoved. _Better over-prepared than under, right?_

The brightly colored wrappers glinted in the dim light like Halloween candy strewn across the dusty floor and Stiles glanced up to see green eyes sparkling beneath raised dark brows. "Have a lot of plans, do you?"

Stiles had expected a crack, but he hadn't expected the husky curiosity and eager heat lacing his companion's voice. He inhaled raggedly. Catching the edge of the packet he was holding between his teeth, he tore it open quickly.

"Yeah, _big_ plans," he replied with a wicked grin, glancing up at Miguel from under his lashes as he rolled the purportedly grape flavored condom onto him. "For _all _of them," he added teasingly. He didn't, actually, but it _sounded _good and Miguel seemed to like that response, so hey, he was a creative guy; he was sure he could come up with something.

His tongue darted out unconsciously to lick his lips and then he was leaning forward, bracing his hands lightly against Miguel's thighs as he went down on him. Stiles heard Miguel inhale sharply as he took the man's cock into his mouth and bobbed his head, teasing him with lips, tongue and suction. The condom was coated in some kind of water based lube that made it extra slippery and it tasted about as _grape _as most cough syrups that claimed the same, but Stiles could not have cared less just at the moment. _This was happening, holy shit it was actually happening._ He would probably have been grinning stupidly if his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied.

Miguel's hips pushed forward into the friction, clearly wanting more. Stiles gave way and moved with him, rocking back onto his heels to keep from being choked. Perhaps taking the motion for a retreat that it wasn't, Miguel stilled. Stiles leaned back in, long fingers splaying across the tender skin beneath the other man's navel and caressing outward as he drew in deep, preparatory breaths. He felt Miguel's abdomen quiver under his fingertips, but the man held still as a stone under his ministrations.

Stiles glanced up with a touch of concern, hoping Miguel's lack of participation wasn't because he was dissatisfied with his partner's technique. He didn't want to screw this up. He didn't want to disappoint. The last person he'd done this for had been less than complimentary about his efforts, but he had been a douche anyway and Stiles had practiced since then, okay? Even an annoyingly overactive gag reflex could be overcome with enough persistence.

_"Geez, you okay? Stiles, man, you gotta learn to give decent head. Need to have __**something**_ _to offer if you're gonna keep a boyfriend." The words were light; said with a smile and a wink like it was a joke, but it wasn't funny as Stiles hung his head and wiped puke off his mouth, throat raw and face burning. He laughed anyway. _

Miguel's face was flushed, his gaze both glazed and intense when Stiles caught it with his own. As if sensing his companion's need for reassurance, or perhaps catching a glimmer of it in his expression, Miguel's fingers slid into Stiles' hair, one thumb caressing his temple. He murmured a soft expletive, the breathless, heated way he said it clearly making it a compliment. The older man wasn't much of a talker, but his non-verbal communications were pretty clear. His expressive eyes glittered and his sculpted lips hung partially open, a sight that went straight to Stiles' gut. Licking his lips and panting softly like it was taking all his concentration not to fuck raggedly into the warm heat of Stiles' mouth, Miguel gave him a hazy, blissed-out little smile.

Stiles relaxed again, heat seeping through his body at the knowledge that he was putting that look on Miguel's face. It was a heady kind of power to have and very arousing. Giving Miguel a saucy little wink, as if he'd just been checking in on him, Stiles focused back on the task at hand. Clearly, Miguel was keeping still out of some sense that that was the proper thing to do, rather than a lack of enjoyment. Of course, for all Stiles knew maybe it _was_ what you were supposed to do if you weren't a lying, creepy dick. Just because Matt had treated him like a vaguely disinteresting blow-up doll he had to fuck the hell out of just to get aroused didn't mean that was normal.

Stiles actually rather appreciated being allowed to come at this at his own pace ... but he also really wanted to make Miguel respond to him. He wanted to push him until his control fled and he came apart completely under his hands. Just the thought made his pulse pound and his body twitch within the confines of his jeans.

His fingers traced over the sharp crests of Miguel's hip bones and then down across his butt and legs, pushing the man's pants fully to his knees. Hands curling around the back of Miguel's thighs, Stiles held on for purchase as he pushed forward, taking him deep. Stiles focused on relaxing and breathing through his nose as he sunk down further and further, carefully working until he'd taken everything and practically had his nose buried in the other man's pubic hair. That didn't seem like it should be much of a turn on, except for the part where right now it totally was. He was honestly a little surprised by how much he was enjoying this. How attracted you were to someone clearly made a difference.

Closing his eyes, Stiles swallowed around the thick cock in his throat. Miguel shuddered, _hard. _One hand fisted almost desperately in Stiles' short, tousled hair while the other gripped on to his shoulder. Stiles smiled as much as his current position allowed. He swallowed again, bobbing his head back and forth and experimentally stroking his partner's balls.

Miguel gave a strangled little groan. His hands tightened, both of them now shifting to the back of Stiles' head. Losing the battle for control, his hips started moving again. He pushed into Stiles' motions, following the pace he set at first, then driving more urgently as the pleasure mounted. His hands cupped the back of Stiles' head, steadying him into the thrusts, but not holding so tight as to trap him if he needed to pull away. Stiles didn't. He met the pace willingly, humming and groaning around the hard thickness fucking into his mouth in a way that seemed to drive Miguel crazy.

"Oh God," the other man gasped softly. "Oh fuck." The words sounded like they were torn from him, unconscious and unstoppable. Miguel's eyes were screwed shut, his long dark lashes brushing his cheeks.

Stiles had mostly been making sounds for Miguel's benefit, but now he groaned for real. _Shit, that was hot._ He was kind of proud of himself, which was a good and somewhat rare feeling for him lately. His throat and jaw ached a little, but it was a small price to pay for the amazing reactions he was getting from his partner and the intense throb of arousal beating through his own body like a rudiment being played by an over-caffeinated drummer. All the time he'd put in practicing this action with that silly pink dildo that he'd actually originally gotten to use as part of a prank was now paying off in spades. It was quite different with a real person, but definitely a _good _different.

Miguel didn't last too much longer. He came with a gasp, breath punching out of him, fingertips digging into the back of Stiles' scalp hard enough to bruise. He instinctively jutted his stuttering hips forward, pushing deep and staying there. As soon as Stiles realized what was happening, he obliged, sucking and swallowing around the pulsing length, milking the orgasm from his partner's tense, shuddering body. His only regret was that with Miguel hunched over him and his nose buried in the other man's crotch, he couldn't see his face. But Stiles had a good imagination and the spasms of pleasure rocking through his partner's body were certainly being transmitted to him very clearly.

Miguel leaned forward, his trembling stomach brushing Stiles' forehead. The motion pushed Stiles back onto his heels again, his back pressed up against the frame of the old bed behind him. With Miguel's fingers still tight to the back of his head and the man's thick cock pretty much completely blocking his throat as he curled over him, Stiles was almost completely hemmed in by the bigger man's body and the bed at his back. Strangely, however, it didn't make him feel overly claustrophobic, at least, not in a frightening way. However small whatever the logical basis might be, the truth was that on some instinctual level he felt perfectly safe with Miguel.

Adjusting the angle of his head until he could manage to get enough air not to pass out, Stiles stroked Miguel's inner thighs and fondled his balls gently to help ease him down after climax. Miguel let go of his head with one hand to clutch onto the dresser beside them for support, lungs heaving silently. For all his adjusting, Stiles wasn't really capable of getting quite enough air in this position and for some reason the light-headed buzz translated like alcohol, giving hazy, giddy wings to his already soaring arousal. After a minute, Stiles had to push lightly at Miguel's thighs to give him the idea he needed to back off now, because as nice as this was, Stiles really needed to breathe properly again, and _soon_.

Miguel obliged quickly. Almost too quickly at first, but he stopped when Stiles' body tensed at the too-abrupt withdrawal and his motions became more careful and smooth. He cradled Stiles' head gently between his hands, his spent, spit-slick cock sliding free from between the teen's lips with a soft pop and leaving a trail of saliva down his chin.

Still feeling dizzy, as much from arousal as from lack of oxygen, Stiles leaned his head back against the edge of the bed. He tilted his face up towards the other man, looking beautifully wrecked. His hair was disheveled from Miguel's handling; his pupils blown from desire and the relatively low lighting conditions. His mouth hung open slightly, glistening lips flushed and attractively swollen from use. His chest rose and fell in deep, panting breaths as he tried to regain his air. He looked drunk as he smiled hazily up at his companion.

The look on Miguel's face as he gazed down at him made Stiles swallow hard, his sore throat working to deal with the over-abundance of saliva that recent actions had produced. He could see the looseness of post-orgasmic bliss in Miguel's body language, but climax had not dulled the heat behind those intense green eyes. _Fuck, the man was beautiful._ Stiles imagined he himself must look like an over-wrought fish out of water right now, but Miguel was looking at him like his messy, gasping state was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. _Hot damn, if that didn't do things to his insides. _

Groaning softly in the back of his throat because he was well beyond seriously worked up by now, Stiles reached down and chafed his palm between his legs, rubbing his straining erection through the material in an attempt to deal with the need throbbing through him. He whined softly, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

His eyes flew open again when a warm hand closed about his wrist, pulling it gently away from his crotch. He found Miguel kneeling in front of him, face close to his own. Strong fingers stroked the inside of his captive wrist tenderly. The motion was unintentionally suggestive.

"Let me?" Miguel breathed the husky offer as a question. His free hand moved down, a few fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Stiles' jeans, just above the zipper.

Stiles inhaled, hips rocking up of their own volition at the slight contact, Miguel's cool fingers somehow managing to feel burning warm against the sensitive skin of his stomach. He wanted to be touched so badly it _ached_. Stiles nodded quickly, still gasping breaths between parted lips. "Please," he murmured, voice a little hoarse from his recent ministrations. "Yes, _please._"

Stiles felt the slight tremor his words caused translate through Miguel's hands. Then Miguel's mouth was on his own again, open and seeking. The kiss was intense, Miguel exploring his mouth hungrily as if extra turned on by where it had recently been. He kissed Stiles like nothing else in the world existed and Stiles clung to him because, for him, just then, nothing else did. He'd never felt like this before.

There was something about this man that drew Stiles in like matter flowing into a black hole. Maybe it should have scared him, but it didn't. Stiles fell into that abyss willingly, grabbing onto it with both hands. He sucked and teased Miguel's tongue encouragingly as it caressed his sore mouth, rolling his hips hungrily up in search of friction. Miguel was passionate to the edge of being rough, but not in a bad way. His touch was somehow ravaging and yet gentle at the same time. Stiles currently had no brain power to spare for trying to properly quantify the sensations or the contradictory ways his brain interpreted them, so he just enjoyed it instead.

Miguel popped the button on Stiles' pants and tried to work the zipper. The angle they were at and the way Stiles' legs were bent were not optimal for the task. Rising, Miguel pulled Stiles to his feet with him. Feeling shaky, Stiles steadied himself with one hand against the dresser as Miguel dragged down his zipper and pushed down his pants and underwear.

Large, warm hands wrapped around his straining shaft and Stiles actually squeaked softly at the sensation. He was so keyed up that the feeling of Miguel's fingers and palm gliding along the flushed, burning surface of his cock nearly undid him. It felt _amazingly _different from when he touched himself and not at all like the sort of perfunctory way Matt had handled him. Miguel's fingers glided reverently across his flesh as if exploring him was the thing he wanted most in the world; like Stiles' body was something entrancing and desirable.

Staggering for balance, Stiles gripped the nightstand tighter, knees threatening to buckle. He bit his lip, knowing that yelping and nearly falling over probably weren't very sexy reactions, except somehow the absolutely burning expression on Miguel's face said that he felt differently. Pressing a brief kiss against Stiles' lips, Miguel moved away long enough to strip the dirty, mouse and bug eaten patchwork quilt off the bed behind him. The thick, old fashioned comforter was completely ruined by time and exposure, but it had apparently been well made, because the ribbed, pale tan blanket below was in much better shape. It appeared to be relatively clean and intact, all things considered.

Stiles was currently in no shape to do much considering, unable to give much thought to the blanket's actual cleanliness or the state of the ancient mattress beneath. It wasn't grimy to the touch and it supported his weight when Miguel guided him to sit on the edge. That was as far as he cared about it right now. Hell, the place was probably less germy than a busy nightclub bathroom, and people hooked up in those all the time, right?

Miguel stumbled slightly, his movements hampered by the pants around his knees. To Stiles' delight, rather than wrestle them back up, the other man instead bent to quickly tug off his boots, shucking the pants entirely. Stiles realized that somewhere along the way, Miguel had also shed the used condom, giving him an unobstructed view of the other man's still fairly firm and heavy hanging erection. The sight of a completely naked Miguel crouching down between his knees and looking like he wanted to devour him whole totally shorted out Stiles' mind and their surroundings faded into complete insignificance. They could have been sitting atop the Chrysler building in a rain storm and he wouldn't have cared.

Miguel took first one and then the other of Stiles' feet in his hands, tugging off his sneakers and then pulling the boy's pants the rest of the way off his legs until Stiles was as fully naked as he was. Stiles made helpful motions, but let Miguel do the bulk of undressing him. The other man seemed to like that and to be honest, he did too.

Shifting forward into his personal space, Miguel spread Stiles' legs further part with one hand on the inside of each of his knees. Stiles watched, his breath coming so fast he might soon be in danger of hyperventilating. Miguel shifted into the gap he'd created, kneeling between Stiles' legs and running his hands slowly up and down the inside of his thighs as if enamored of the feeling of the sensitive skin there and the way Stiles was reacting to his touches.

Falling back to support himself on his hands, Stiles bit his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes reflecting the need burning through his body. Miguel's hands created the most amazing sensations against his skin. Stiles was a very tactile person. The calluses of hard work on Miguel's palms and fingers gave his touch a mix of contrasting soft and rough textures that drove Stiles crazy.

Stiles' elbows shook and he had to support himself on one hand, jamming the knuckles of his other into his mouth to stifle an outcry when Miguel rolled a condom onto him. It wasn't an entirely smooth procedure. Miguel didn't seem to have any practice putting one on someone else, but he managed it all right in the end. Stiles bit his knuckle harder, trying to think of non-sexy things and counting it a minor miracle that he hadn't lost it just from having the condom applied.

The condoms had been part of a variety pack and the scent of artificial strawberry told Stiles which one Miguel had grabbed. Miguel dipped his head and gave an experimental lick along Stiles' length, much as Stiles had done to him earlier. The older man paused for just a moment, his brows pinching slightly in a way that suggested he either didn't like the taste, or simply wasn't used to it. Stiles wondered suddenly if perhaps this wasn't something Miguel had done very often.

Whether or not that was the case, he seemed to have no lacking in his willingness to try. He gamely licked up the other side of Stiles' cock before sucking him full on into his mouth.

Stiles fell back on his elbows, a strangled sound punched out of him by the heat of Miguel's mouth and the intense surge of pleasure it caused. _"Holy shit,"_ he half gasped, half sobbed. It felt _so _good.

He quickly decided that his supposition about Miguel's past experience giving oral was most likely on point. The older man had certainly not done it very much, if he'd ever done it at all. He wasn't guarding his teeth and he seemed kind of surprised when attempting to go down on Stiles as deeply as Stiles had done on him caused the teen's cock to press against the back of his throat in a way that made him choke. He didn't pull free, but did back off a little, a short bout of coughing sending tremors through his muscular shoulders.

From his half-reclined position, Stiles could just see the dark flush coloring Miguel's features as he hunched over him, body tense, clearly trying to figure out where he went wrong without looking like he didn't know what he was doing.

His partner's lack of experience did nothing to kill Stiles' mood. If anything, he found it surprisingly endearing. It was sweet, and hot that Miguel wanted to do this for him so much that he was venturing into territory he apparently hadn't really trod before. Conscious of what it felt like to be the inexperienced one and to be mocked for it, Stiles supported himself on one arm again so he could reach down and thread his fingers through Miguel's thick, dark hair in shaky, soothing caresses.

"That feels so good," he murmured encouragingly, and that was nothing but the truth. He was so aroused that Miguel's skill level was completely unimportant right now. The warmth and pressure of his mouth was completely undoing him, as was the earnest intent to please visible in the man's every motion.

As if encouraged by, or wanting to live up to Stiles' praise, Miguel determinedly went down on him again, clearly forcing himself to keep going when he started to gag. As amazing as the greater pressure and depth felt, and as much as Stiles was not at all adverse to helping Miguel work on this if he wanted to practice, he really didn't want the other man to push himself so hard he didn't enjoy it. Besides, honestly, if Miguel kept that up, Stiles was going to pop right _now_ and he desperately wanted to draw this amazing experience out a little longer.

Stiles tugged at Miguel's hair, pulling him back a bit. "A-a little _too _good," he gasped out with a wrecked, rueful grin. "I'm way too close. Maybe just a little lighter right now? Help me make it last? It's just... you... it feels so amazing," he murmured, hand tightening in Miguel's hair with a soft groan as the older man shifted, the friction on his throbbing cock almost unbearable. "I don't want it to end."

Miguel pulled off of him wetly, trailing saliva. His dark lashes were damp from his earlier attempts and his expression held an amazingly intoxicating mix of vulnerability and strength, of raw hunger and earnest desire. "Anything you want," he promised, his warm breath shivering across Stiles' skin. Miguel looked suddenly so much younger. His expression as he gazed at Stiles was full of such unguarded openness, his normally wary mien absent as if it had been discarded with his clothing. Maybe, in a way, it had. Somehow, Stiles knew in that moment that Miguel was baring himself in more ways than one and the intensity of that fairly took his breath away.

"Anything," Miguel whispered again against Stiles' stomach, his mouth sucking hot, tempting kisses against his lover's abdomen and then down to work his way around the base of Stiles' dick. Miguel's hands moved against his thighs again and cupped his balls.

Stiles whined appreciatively. The sight of the other man's dark head bent between his legs made his stomach do flip-flops. It didn't matter how slow Miguel took it, he wasn't going to last. This was just too beautifully, blissfully much for him. Arm giving out, he let himself flop back onto the bed, barely missing clipping his head against the wall. His hands gripped the blanket on either side of him. He felt like he was going to fly away at any moment and it was _amazing. _

Taking advantage of the slight change in position, Miguel's hand slid from Stiles' balls and glided experimentally lower, fingertips caressing back across his perineum and then back further still.

Stiles quivered, his whole body reacting with little quakes of pleasure and excitement when Miguel's fingers brushed across his hole. It was only a light brush at first, but Miguel returned to that area a little more boldly after seeing the favorable reaction the caress had garnered.

Stiles thighs jerked, his muscles all drawing tight as Miguel suddenly recaptured Stiles' cock in his mouth, sucking around his length while he rubbed a massaging knuckle against his entrance. Miguel wasn't pushing too hard, but the stimulation was simply far too nice and Stiles felt the steal bands of his climax snap taught the muscles in his stomach and thighs, pooling hot and unstoppable in his groin before cresting outward. Head arching against the mattress, he gave a soft, audible exhale that was not quite a cry, but not quite silent either, pleasure surging through him in waves as his dick pulsed within the tight, warm confines of his lover's mouth.

Miguel stayed put between his legs, gently mouthing and caressing him as Stiles' trembling body relaxed and his breathing slowed. Stiles stared up at the dark ceiling, floating on a blissful cloud of contented perfection. "Oh. My. God," he murmured, breathless and smiling as one lethargic hand pulled free from gravity to lightly caress Miguel's head and shoulders. "Wow. Just... _wow_."

Miguel stripped off the used condom and crawled up over him. There wasn't enough room, so he shifted Stiles and rearranged him until he was lying on the bed the proper direction. Then he joined him, laying partially beside, partially atop him so they were sharing body heat, naked skin pressed contentedly together.

Feeling lethargic and content to stay like this pretty much forever, Stiles turned into Miguel and kissed him, arm winding about his back. Miguel kissed back, slowly caressing Stiles' face, his neck, his sides, his butt, anything in easy reach. It was a slow, blissful make-out, the kind Stiles had never actually participated in before. He and Miguel just lay there for a little while, enjoying the ability to touch and explore, to map one another's bodies without reservation simply because they _wanted _to.

It was not possible for it to stay innocent for too long, however. Stiles felt Miguel's stiffening erection beginning to dig into his hip at around the same time the older man's kisses and caresses started becoming a little more purposeful. His own body was also beginning to take interest in the proceedings again, his cock heavy and starting to swell where it pressed against Miguel's thigh. The full body contact was delicious and Stiles humped the man's muscular leg with a soft exhale of pleasure. He slid one knee between Miguel's, tangling their legs together.

Miguel rolled more fully on top of him, kissing his neck and rolling their hips into alignment. Stiles gasped audibly at the sensation.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Warning - another full chapter of descriptive sexy times. Um... I'm sorry? :) Please don't read if it's not your cup of tea. Thanks!**_

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Stiles groaned softly in the back of this throat as Miguel's hot, hardening flesh slid against his own. The arousal brimming up through him felt hotter and more fluid this time in some indefinable way. No less intense and delicious than before, but less desperate and somehow more deep seated, like soap bubbling effortlessly out from the pores of a wet sponge as it was squeezed.

He gasped again, biting first his lip, and then Miguel's shoulder as Miguel's hips rocked into his, their cocks brushing and catching and sliding and pulling him into a delicious rhythm as he pushed back. His mind was slow to catch up with his body and suddenly he wondered whether they shouldn't be wearing condoms for this. He wasn't sure, it was hard to think straight with Miguel's weight a delicious pressure above him and the hard planes of the man's naked, muscular body molded up against his every surface.

Their cocks were sticky between their stomachs with the aftermath of their previous orgasms and now starting to become slick either from perspiration and friction or possible the start of more pre-cum. The slick, raw slide of skin on skin was amazing, but Stiles suddenly wasn't sure what the rule was here. Was it a problem if there was no penetration? Was it any different than making out? _Shit_, he wasn't sure. He'd never been in exactly this type of situation before.

He was just deciding that when in doubt, it was better to err on the side of caution and trying to figure out how to extricate himself without giving Miguel the wrong impression about his interest in the proceedings when Miguel took care of the issue himself.

Rising to his hands and knees and giving Stiles a kiss on the nose, Miguel scooted back and leaned, reaching over the edge of the old bed. He came up with one of the condom wrappers, either cherry or another strawberry, judging by the color of the packet. Miguel took a moment to read, or at least glance at something on the wrapper before he ripped it open and quickly rolled it on himself. Leaning over Stiles again, he rubbed the slick condom against him and into his stomach before beginning to kiss his way slowly down the teen's chest. He knelt between Stiles' thighs and Stiles happily curled his legs around the back of his lover's hips, lost in sensation.

In a semi-euphoric haze, Stiles wondered if Miguel expected him to get his own condom, or if as long as one of them was wrapped, that was probably okay? Then Miguel shifted, tilting Stiles' hips and massaging his asshole again and Stiles stopped thinking as his stomach flipped heatedly and a little shiver ran from his tailbone up his spine.

Miguel continued the massage, his knuckle working the ring until Stiles' body started to relax into it. The head of Miguel's knuckle pressed in shallowly, easing him open. The digit was dry but Miguel didn't press so hard or deep that it was painful.

Stiles inhaled with a shudder. His mind hazed out completely as he suddenly realized where this was going, because as often as he'd _imagined _what it would be like to have someone inside him, the possibility of it happening in reality was honestly somewhat brain-melting.

Miguel rubbed his fingers in circles, pushing his knuckle in deeper. He wasn't being rough, but without any lube it was getting to the edge of uncomfortable. He stopped just shy of it actually starting to hurt, though. Moving to support his weight on his hands, he teased his lover with his body instead. The purposeful, promising brush of his cock sliding between Stiles' butt cheeks sent frissons of pleasure and excitement through the teen.

Stiles hadn't actually imagined they'd skip right up to penetrative sex tonight, although maybe he should have. He was not at all adverse to this turn of events. The idea thrilled him, but he'd never done it before and couldn't help feeling a certain amount of nerves at the prospect.

"Oh... _Oh... _Okay, this is happening..." he murmured, hips shifting, cheeks spotty with an adorable flush that matched his bitten lips. His eyes were wide in the dim light. He was suddenly glad he remembered reading on the condom box that they were sugar-free and suitable for intercourse, even if he'd not imagined using them for such.

Miguel caressed his hot cheek gently, the unhurried naturalness of his movements suggesting he felt this was the normal progression of events from what they'd just been doing, and maybe it was. It wasn't as if Stiles had a base of reference. His last "boyfriend" and the only guy he'd ever been with outside a few drunken encounters that didn't really count, had turned out to just be using him to get to someone else and had therefore been distinctly disinterested in having sexy times. For a while Stiles had been convinced that was his fault; that Matt didn't want more because he wasn't attractive and was so bad at everything - notions the douche had, of course, actively encouraged. Stiles knew better now, but was still in the dark about what it was like to be with someone who was actually into you. So, hell, what did he know, really?

Apparently a little more than Miguel, as it turned out. Stiles' nervous excitement was quickly joined by a feeling of surprise and mild alarm as Miguel's hardness started prodding his entrance in a fairly meaningful manner and Stiles realized he wasn't just teasing him with the contact.

"Um..." Stiles hesitated, then squirmed, yelping softly when Miguel's solution to the resistance he was encountering was to push a little harder.

"Whoa! Whoa, Nellie," he said, putting his hands up to call for a pause and scooting back a little to ease the pressure. "You can't just ... um ... my body is unfortunately not as - uh - as _helpful_ as a girl's in some ways, okay? We need way more prep for this, and I know the condoms _say_ they're lubricated, but that is like, not nearly enough, by itself." _Especially not for my first go at it. _Stiles struggled to give some kind of tactful explanation, resisting his initial impulse to blurt _"oh my god, you don't just __**stick it in**__". _

_Gentle, _he reminded himself. _Gentle. Maybe he doesn't know. _That seemed a little incredible to the point of being preposterous, but then again, maybe not if Miguel had never been with a man before, which Stiles was seriously beginning to suspect. Maybe Miguel had had a kind of sheltered existence and hadn't really investigated the subject or had much exposure to gay porn? Or perhaps only porn that jumped right into the deep end and didn't show the stuff that went first ... ? Who knew. The point was, if Miguel wasn't intentionally pushing the envelope with him and it was an honest blunder, Stiles wasn't going to be a dick about it.

If it _wasn't _a mistake... Stiles didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to consider how completely vulnerable he was right now. Miguel could do anything to him out here and there was little he could do about it ... but he wasn't afraid. _No, he wasn't._ Ill advised or not, he trusted this man.

Proving that he deserved that trust, Miguel pulled back almost immediately. "Oh," his expression was startled and flustered. "O-oh, right," he said it like it was some detail he totally knew but had just temporarily forgotten. Yeah, Stiles was quite familiar with _that _act. _Miguel totally __**hadn't**__ known._

Stiles bit his lower lip hard to keep from smiling too much. It was so very rare and unexpected for him to be the experienced one in this situation. Or... well, the _knowledgeable _one, anyway. His expression quickly turned into a frown, however, when Miguel climbed off him with regretful embarrassment stiffening his movements.

Miguel fumbled about on the floor for his clothes, head ducked and refusing to meet Stiles' gaze. "Sorry," the older man mumbled. "I didn't mean... I'm sorry."

"No, no, no! Wait..." Stiles said, sitting up quickly. "Or, uh, I guess I mean yes, yes, yes?" he amended. "I mean, it's okay, I wasn't saying _stop_, just _hold on a minute_," he tried to clarify, slipping off the bed and pulling Miguel's pants out of his hand. He let them fall back to the floor and pushed up against the other man, their bodies rubbing together as he gave him a soft kiss. "I... I want you," he murmured, his face flushing a little at the admission and the butterflies in his stomach making a marked reappearance. He draped his arms around Miguel's waist. "I want to ... to feel you." Stiles bit his already over-bitten lip, wanting to sound seductive but just feeling awkward and horny and nervous instead.

Miguel seemed totally okay with his brand of awkward, though, because his eyes almost visibly dilated and he rocked his still condom-clad erection a little firmer into Stiles' abdomen. Stiles grinned as he leaned in and kissed Miguel again, dragging the man's lower lip lightly between his teeth. Miguel wasn't exactly suave incarnate himself, but honestly ... that put Stiles at ease so much more than if his companion had been the confident, experienced, forceful lover he'd sort of expected. Maybe their oddly fumbling attempts at this whole sex thing wasn't the kind of majestic erotica anyone would put in a movie or make a porno about, but it worked for him. It really, really did. He felt like he could relax with Miguel. Like he could explore and experiment with him without feeling as intimidated by his own inexperience or his partner's massive good looks as he otherwise would have been.

Miguel's hands settled on his waist. "Yeah?" he murmured against the corner of Stiles' lips.

"Yeah," Stiles confirmed, twisting his head to capture the other man's mouth again because he just would never get enough of that perfection.

Maybe Stiles was attracted to the wrong kind of people as a rule, but most of the guys he'd met with Miguel's level of hotness tended to be confident to the point of arrogance and interested only in what you had to offer them. Stiles had come prepared to bring his _A game_, such as it was, and hoped the lack of other options might give him a chance. He hadn't been looking for anything meaningful out of this as long they both had fun, but he was finding that Miguel wasn't at all like he had expected. The other man was so much more intense and earnest and Stiles almost didn't know what to do with that. Life seemed to have already left some parts of the young mechanic hardened and made him a little sharp around the edges to be sure, but in other ways he was surprisingly sweet and refreshingly clumsy, almost _innocent_.

They stood there entwined for a moment, kissing and rocking softly together and Stiles was really glad, suddenly, that it never had worked out with Matt or the people he'd crushed on hopelessly in the past. He was glad he was going to do this with Miguel, because sure he was nervous as hell, but ... it was strangely really comfortable too? He had no idea how to explain that. There seemed to be so many contradictions in how he was feeling tonight, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Disentangling, Stiles crouched and dug something out of the pocket of his discarded pants. "Fortunately, I come prepared," he said with grin, triumphantly waggling an unlabeled silver pouch roughly the size and shape of a big-size takeout mayonnaise packet. "Behold, lube," he said with a twinkle in his eyes when Miguel squinted at the object in incomprehension.

Miguel's eyebrows hiked up and Stiles smirked at him. "What? So I like to keep some around. Don't judge. It feels really good when you're jerking off." That was the truth, and the actual reason why it had been in his pocket in the first place. Unlike the condoms, he hadn't expected to need it tonight. If he had, he would have brought a whole lot more. It would do, though, or so he hoped.

Miguel _actually _looked embarrassed when he said that and Stiles gesticulated incredulously. "_DUDE_, you want to stick your dick in me, you cannot seriously be embarrassed just talking about wanking."

Miguel managed to look even more embarrassed. Apparently _doing the do _was okay, but talking about it not so much. "And the condoms you just _happened _to have?" he growled, reverting to gruffness to cover his embarrassment, a tactic to which Stiles was now getting wise. "You use _those_ for wanking too?"

Stiles shrugged. "Not really, but you know, always be prepared right?"

"Oh, you're a boy scout, now?" Miguel teased a little less gruffly as he watched Stiles mince back to the bed and flop dramatically back down atop it, wiggling backward on his elbows until he was situated again.

Stiles grinned at him, letting his legs fall suggestively open as he tore a corner off the lube packet with his teeth. "Mm, sure, think they give merit badges for fucking in abandoned fallout shelters? If not, maybe they should. Would love to see what picture they put on _that_..." Stiles daubed the thick, clear gel onto his middle finger and reached down between his legs, working it lightly against his hole. The lube was cool and the position awkward but the heat in Miguel's eyes felt sufficient to warm him up.

"Be honest," Miguel said, licking suddenly dry lips as he approached the bed, gaze riveted by the inviting display Stiles was putting on. "You came out here planning this." His voice was sounding husky and breathless again.

"_Weeell_, more like _hoping?_" Stiles admitted with a smile that was semi-sheepish, but mostly self-satisfied. He tried to push his finger inside. He rarely fingered himself and was trying to rush things a little too much. He grimaced slightly and backed off, getting more lube and trying again, slower.

Miguel climbed onto the bed with him, studiously observing what Stiles was doing with his fingers. He held his hand out wordlessly. Stiles hesitated a moment, then passed him the packet of lube. Squeezing a good amount out onto two fingers, Miguel nudged Stiles' hand out of the way and rubbed slowly and sensually at the puckered ring of muscle, teasing it and making the area slick.

"This was kind of impromptu, though." Stiles gestured vaguely at the room around them. "I actually intended to wait until we got back to the station to try to seduce you," he said honestly. His breath caught slightly, hips shifting restlessly as he slid a hand under each knee to keep his legs out of the way. "You know, in case you were like, a secret homophobe or something and felt the need to send me packing again. And I wasn't exactly expecting..." he gestured to where Miguel was now starting to work him open with one finger. "Well, let's just say this has gone _way _better than I hoped."

Miguel's finger slid in to his knuckle as Stiles' body gave way for him. Stiles made a little sound in his throat and let go of his knees in favor of gripping at the blankets. It was _such _a different kind of feeling to have someone else touching him there.

Miguel froze and withdrew his finger, applying more lube before pressing it back in. "Is this okay?" he asked quietly. "It feels all right?"

Stiles nodded, leaning up on his elbows a little. "Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, it's fine. Um... you don't have to do that, though, I mean, I can if you want," he offered. It was actually a lot more exciting for him if Miguel did it, but Miguel seemed pretty new to this stuff and he supposed it could be a kind of a gross concept for the uninitiated, maybe.

Miguel was starting to get a feel for when more lube was needed to ease the slow penetration and added another dollop before continuing. "I'd like to, unless you prefer I didn't," he said quietly, stroking the inside of Stiles' thigh with his left hand as his right probed deeper into the boy's body.

Stiles inhaled and shifted his feet about restlessly. The stretch felt weird, neither good nor bad really, but watching Miguel do it ... seeing the studious attention on his face and watching those strong fingers dipping in and out of his body... _that _was pretty hot. "Um, no, go right ahead, that's cool. Totally cool," he assured. "You can ... um ... you can add another finger whenever you're ready," he half invited, half coached. "You're ... you're pretty big so, we should probably get up to like, um, three fingers before we try for the main event, 'kay?" His cheeks flushed a little, because for some reason it kind of _was _a little more embarrassing to talk about than to just do, but he wanted to make sure Miguel understood what needed to happen without making it _sound_ like that's what he was doing. Stiles may have no practical experience, but he was good with _research_.

"Okay," Miguel agreed, and Stiles could have laughed at his serious expression. Miguel looked like he was set to perform a complicated valve replacement or something rather than finger fuck his lover open enough for his cock.

Then Miguel took him at his word and pushed a second finger in with the first and Stiles forgot about laughing. He bit his lips together tightly because that suddenly kind of hurt. His muscles clamped down in response and that didn't help at all. "Um, little more lube, please," he requested.

Miguel immediately obliged, working both fingers back in with extreme care. Stiles' muscles relaxed again as the stretch slowly became easier and stopped aching. Miguel was watching him carefully and Stiles nodded, giving him two thumbs up. "Good. Yeah, good, keep doing that," he said approvingly, only a small quaver in his voice.

Miguel complied. He moved with the kind of methodical care and focused attention Stiles had seen him exhibit more than once over the past few days when working with delicate parts of an engine. Having that intense focus fixed on him significantly increased the heated butterflies battering around in Stiles' stomach.

Miguel worked Stiles patiently with two fingers, stroking the boy's cock with his free hand for several minutes before he started trying to work in a third finger. This proved a difficult venture initially, and there were a few false starts before he was able to work them in without Stiles' knuckles getting too white where he gripped the blanket.

Miguel left the fingers in once he'd gotten that far, and spent several more long, incredible minutes stroking and caressing Stiles' hard, flushed erection and sucking kisses and mild hickeys into this stomach and inner thighs. He learned fast and seemed to understand instinctually that he needed to keep his partner thoroughly aroused in order to make this as easy and as good as possible for him. Or possibly he just really_ liked_ lavishing Stiles' body with his attentions. Either way was golden as far as Stiles was concerned.

The stretch of Miguel's fingers inside him was significant and rode very close along the boundary of comfortable, but that didn't mean Stiles didn't like it. The sensation of something _moving _inside him made the jittery hoard of winged things in his gut flutter like mad and the intensity of the sensation made his toes curl. Pile that atop Miguel's ceaseless attentions to his cock and other reachable erogenous zones and Stiles felt like he might come apart under the stream of continual sensation.

"More," he murmured breathlessly. "Move... _move..._" he begged when he couldn't take the inert sensation of Miguel's fingers any longer. Miguel did, thrusting slowly and deliberately. Stiles whined, the back of his head chafing in small movements against the lumpy old mattress. It was kind of too much, but it was also what he wanted and he panted softly, rolling his hips into the penetration. Excitement, desire and nervous apprehension curled though him in equal measures as he tried to imagine the fingers replaced with a cock. _Holy shit, was he really going to be able to do it? _

Miguel added more lube and slowly the back and forth glide got easier and easier. "Stiles," he murmured, getting his partner's attention off the stars dancing behind his eyelids. He held up the almost empty packet of lube. "There isn't a lot here." There was a thread of concern in Miguel's tone. Clearly, he was worried they wouldn't have enough.

Stiles was a little concerned about that too, but he shrugged carelessly, far too worked up to sweat the small stuff. Anyway, he was pretty stretched out now, so they should be good, right? "It's okay," he said between breaths. "Just use all of it and go slow, we'll be fine."

Miguel did. Stiles could feel the other man's body fairly shaking from need, but he didn't slide up and slot his own long-neglected erection against his lover's body until Stiles told him he was ready. Miguel had augmented the condom's lubrication with all that remained of the lube and it slid slickly against the curve of Stiles' butt as he leaned in close.

Stiles shuddered and wrapped his arms around Miguel's shoulders, his thighs on either side of Miguel's hips and knees clinging somewhat shakily to his sides. "Let me feel you," he murmured breathlessly into his lover's shoulder, wanting it more than he could articulate. "Let me feel you."

Miguel's exhaled in a warm rush against his neck, the muscular body over him tensing as he slid into position and thrust slowly upward. He sank in only a few inches at first but he gave an amazed, strangled groan of sheer pleasure as if the sensation was nearly overwhelming. His dark head dropped to Stiles' chest, forehead resting against his lover's shoulder as he pushed in deeper with careful, needy little thrusts. _"Oh fuck, oh fuck," _he gasped, fingers digging into Stiles' sides as if he might come apart.

_"Fuck!" _Stiles' sharp little moan mingled with his, although driven by a different sensation. The teen's arms clamped hard around Miguel's neck and he pressed his cheek against the top of the man's head. His thighs trembled, body tensing up no matter how hard he tried to relax. Miguel's dick was thicker and longer than his fingers and the penetration _burned. _Maybe it was always like this at first, or maybe it was a combination of their combined lack of experience, a shortage of lube and less than ideal condoms, Stiles had no idea, but he knew that it hurt, a _lot. _

Miguel wasn't being at all rough with him, he was being so gentle and careful, he really was. However much his trembling body suggested he wanted to bury himself in the body beneath him in a few hard thrusts, he didn't. He eased forward a bit at a time, slow and steady until he finally bottomed out. Hips pressed flush against Stiles, Miguel clung to him like he was drowning. His face pressed hard into the teen's clavicle as he fought to keep control, to keep still, to keep being careful, even as his pulse thundered like a locomotive beneath Stiles' palms and inside his aching ass.

"O-okay?" Miguel gasped the question softly, seeming to have to struggle with the words as if coherency took actual, physical effort.

Stiles wasn't. The dick up his ass felt like it was splitting him open. He was too full. It _hurt hurt hurt _like a son of a bitch and he didn't know what he was doing wrong. It wasn't Miguel's fault, there wasn't anything Stiles could think of that his lover could be doing differently to make it easier. Maybe he just had to adjust. Maybe it was like giving oral and it got easier with practice.

"Yeah," he warbled softly, clenching his eyes shut and clutching Miguel's head to his chest tightly. "Okay." It wasn't entirely a lie. This didn't feel great, but he didn't want to stop. Clearly, there was supposed to be some point when this actually felt good and he figured he just had to hang in there and get over the hump. He'd pushed for this. He'd told Miguel he wanted it. He'd been fantasizing about it forever. He wasn't going to tap out now.

Gasping softly, Miguel rocked his hips slowly back, pulling out and pushing back in with a soft, reverent curse of awe.

Stiles kept his eyes screwed shut and held on, trying not to cry. _It would get better soon. It would get better soon._ He knew if he had to, he _could _tell Miguel to stop and he would. That knowledge comforted him. It made the pain only something annoyingly inconvenient and not anything scary. He was also pretty sure Miguel would stop if he realized his partner was hurting ... which was exactly why he wasn't going to tell him. If there was one thing Stiles had plenty of, aside from hyperactivity and sarcasm, it was determination. He fucking _wanted _this, and he was stubborn enough to stick it through.

Tears gathered in his eyes unbidden, wetting his lashes and he set his jaw harder. _He wanted this._ It wasn't just about the sensation and the act anymore, nor even his intense interest in _finally _getting laid. There was more to it now that he hardly knew how to explain, even to himself. He didn't just want to have sex; he wanted to have sex with _Miguel. _He knew it was totally sappy to the point of being gag-worthy, but the truth was he really wanted to give this to Miguel, to share it with him. So he held on and soldiered through, burying his face against Miguel's neck and breathing raggedly as the other man thrust slowly into him. He held on until finally, gradually, he did begin to adjust, the pain began to ease and the glide started to get easier. _Yes, oh thank fuck, yes..._

As the hurt smoothed out to a dull, full ache, Stiles' tense body loosed and he started rolling tentatively into his lover's motions. He still wouldn't really say it felt _good, _but he could definitely deal with just not hurting.

Miguel was practically shaking against him as their bodies rocked together. He gasped and murmured in wordless, almost helpless awe and that went a very long way to making this all worthwhile for Stiles, whether or not he ever got any substantial physical enjoyment from it. Seeing and feeling Miguel come completely undone against him like this was ... it was nothing short of _amazing. _

Miguel buried himself with a little bit more force, crying out softly against Stiles' damp skin. Stiles winced, but at the same time felt shocks of pleasure knot his gut and tingle through his cock. His erection had flagged some before, but the smooth slip and slide of Miguel's stomach chafing against him and the visceral sight and sound of his partner's pleasure were working on bringing it pleasantly back to life.

Stiles bit his lip. He was starting to be able to enjoy himself again, but Miguel was beginning to speed up and he wasn't ready for that yet.

Miguel shifted up his body, increasing the angle of their hips as he leaned to catch Stiles' mouth in a hazy, urgent kiss. He saw Stiles' glistening eyes and tear-wet cheeks and stopped dead. His movements stilled, his hands quickly rising to cup the teen's face gently between his palms as he slid out from between his legs.

"Hey... hey... Stiles? Are you okay?" he asked in genuine concern. "What's wrong? Am I hurting you?"

Stiles could feel the other man's heart pounding against his chest, but Miguel's attention was fully trained on his partner's wellbeing as if nothing were more important to him. "O-oh my God, can you stop being fucking perfect for like five seconds?" Stiles rasped in a slightly watery tone, his smile almost painfully bright as he ran shaky fingers through Miguel's hair. "S-seriously, Dude, you're gonna ruin me f-for real life," he complained fondly.

Miguel didn't seem to understand what he was saying, Stiles wasn't sure if he did himself, but when the other man started to draw back he shook his head and quickly locked his arms around his neck, pulling him back down.

"I'm fine," he promised. "I'm fine. Don't stop. I want this. It kinda hurt at first but it feels good now, promise. Just... slow, okay? Please? I haven't really done this before." The admission escaped him before he realized what he'd said. He cringed, feeling his damp cheeks prickle with heat. _Oops. _

He had so very much _never _intended to let Miguel know he had been a freaking virgin_._ Well... in this particular way, at least. He expected some ribbing for that, or at least a weird look. He was 19 years old. All his friends were doing the do since high school and popular culture was very clear about what kind of loser still hadn't been properly laid yet by his age. He kind of thought all that societal pressure was actually sort of crappy, especially when you were already trying your best _thank you very much, _but that didn't change the mocking attitude he was likely to get from other men if he was stupid enough to admit this fact. Been there, got that t-shirt, thanks.

Miguel, however, did no such thing. He didn't even act surprised. Actually, he looked sort of ... relieved? "Me either," he whispered back, shocking the hell out of Stiles until he supposed he probably meant with a guy, which, yeah, Stiles had kind of already figured that. Honestly, though, he had a hard time imagining why someone as gorgeous as Miguel couldn't have had all the girlfriends and/or boyfriends he wanted growing up.

"So just... tell me things, okay?" Miguel murmured, caressing Stiles' blotchy, unevenly flushed cheekbones. "Tell me what you like, what feels good, what doesn't... I want to make you feel good, Stiles. So good." He brushed his thumb across Stiles' lower lip. His voice was a husky rasp and Stiles thought he might just melt into the heat of those eyes.

"Um... yeah, okay, cool," Stiles mumbled, tripping over his words and trying to remember how to speak. "Y-you too. I want that too. For you, I mean." _Yeah, eloquence had clearly left the building._

"Is it okay if I... ?" Miguel asked, glancing down their bodies questioningly. There was that cute flush on his cheeks again and Stiles grinned, draping his arms around his shoulders.

"Oh yeah, you _better_," he affirmed, wrapping his legs around Miguel. "Back in the saddle, cowboy."

Miguel winced, the flush deepening. "Oh my God, Stiles, can you not do that?"

"Ride 'em, buckaroo?" Stiles _innocently _tried a different phrase as if _that_ was the problem.

"You just be careful what you wish for," Miguel teased, his cautious motions not matching his words as he rocked back into Stiles.

Stiles inhaled and shifted, but it was okay, he was still acclimated and Miguel was as good as his word, going slow, almost painfully slow. He spent a good long time stroking and teasing Stiles, not even moving much inside him, just staying deep, rolling his hips and nudging against his core in shallow little movements until he more or less accidentally found his prostate.

Stiles' body tensed deliciously at the sudden sensation. It happened again and his back arched a little, feeling like a little spark of pleasure was running directly from his ass to his dick. Now _this _was more like it. "Oh!" he said softly. "Oh... okay, yeah, um, there. Definitely there. That was good."

Miguel seemed to have already guessed as much from Stiles' reaction and he sought to please, grinding and nudging against the sensitive area over and over, hands stroking the teen's body and his cock until Stiles was completely and deliciously mad from the pleasure.

"Oh my God, Miguel, you're killing me... _move, move, move,_" he half begged, half ordered, rocking his hips up desperately, practically writhing on the mattress.

Miguel did, the pace starting slow, but gaining speed and force rapidly as it continued to meet with only the most enthusiastic and genuine of responses.

Stiles gasped and keened softly in delight, body undulating wildly into the maze of new sensations. He couldn't get enough. He wanted more. _More_. He tugged at Miguel's hips, with his heels, urging him on, urging him to take him harder and deeper and faster and just ... _more _everything. Each stroke sent electricity jolting up his spine. His erection, trapped between their bodies, was also getting a wonderful amount of friction with each wild, passionate roll of their bodies.

"Oh God, yes, more, more, _moremoremore_..." Stiles wasn't even aware he was speaking the plea aloud, begging for it. He was so close now, riding the edge of ecstasy hard and furious, hanging there for what seemed a blissful and torturous eternity until everything snapped into place in a startling moment of intense clarity and elation, his body thrilling hard as he came all over Miguel's stomach, mouth open but soundless.

Miguel fucked into him a few more times, bruising and deliciously deep. Then his hips stuttered as he too found release. Stiles held onto him, gently, mindlessly stroking the other man's trembling head and shoulders as he collapsed bonelessly down on top of him. Stiles was trembling too. Miguel's weight seemed to anchor him, to keep him together so he didn't spill out all over the place like water escaping from a melted cup.

He felt exhausted and wired at the same time, the aftershocks of pleasure still sparking in his stomach and thigh muscles and tingling all the way down to the balls of his feet. His arches actually _throbbed _and that was really weird but also really strangely pleasant. He could honestly say he'd never felt this simultaneously wrung out and amazing all at the same time.

After a while, Miguel rolled off him and they rearranged themselves into something a little more comfortable as their bodies cooled and heartbeats gradually returned to normal. Neither seemed ready to move yet and while the air outside as getting nippy, their little concrete haven was doing a good job of trapping both their body heat and the heat from the day gone by inside, keeping things comfortable. Miguel nuzzled his face lazily into the back of Stiles' neck as he spooned against his back, a contented lassitude hanging over the both of them.

"You okay?" Miguel asked softly against his nape.

Stiles smiled. "_Dude_," he groaned contentedly. "_So_ far past okay you have no idea. That was _really _good. How about you? First time not suck too much?"

Stiles felt Miguel smile against his neck. "Not too much, no. It was... you were... amazing," he murmured softly with just a touch of that adorable embarrassment again. Stiles couldn't pretend he didn't thrill contentedly all over at the praise and melt a bit at the cuteness. He had finally started to understand how very _shy _Miguel actually was behind his stoic, grumpy front.

"Mm, well, that's probably only because you have no comparison," Stiles felt compelled to joke. "I'm sure you could do better."

Miguel wrapped an arm around his chest, holding him possessively close. "Don't do that," he murmured, sounding almost puzzled. "Don't run yourself down, Stiles. You're attractive, funny, and okay, sometimes annoying as heck, but maybe I kind of like that too - _occasionally_," he added quickly.

Stiles blinked, honestly surprised and touched by the words. He grinned, contentedly wiggling further back into the shelter of Miguel's arms. "Mm, wow, awesome sex _and _compliments. I could get used to this. Tell me more stuff you like about me."

"Mmm," Miguel hummed against him, seeming to know Stiles was only half teasing. "Well, you pick things up quickly, you're really easy to talk to, and, um... I ... I really liked having sex with you," he murmured the last in a small, flustered rush. Clearly, he wasn't very practiced at romantic confessions, but Stiles prized the genuine honesty of his words over all the flowery language in the world. He didn't know how to tell Miguel how much he appreciated it; how much he appreciated everything he'd had done for him tonight. So instead, he turned over in the other man's arms and kissed him lightly.

"Thanks. I really like having sex with you too," he returned the compliment with a twinkling smile. "Seriously, I can't understand how someone like you hasn't had _all _the sex, man. I mean, if I had your body... hot damn, high school would have been an entirely different experience."

Miguel shrugged a bit self-consciously, tipping his head to rest against Stiles' shoulder. "I moved around a lot, growing up. Never really had time to connect with anybody and after a certain point it just seemed safer - I mean - _better_, not to." Miguel's fingers worried at the blanket, brow creasing slightly as if he'd said more than he intended. "And I'm not sure what you mean," he added, smoothly switching subjects. "I don't see a _thing _wrong with your body."

Stiles laughed, feeling pleasantly flushed. "Yeah, well you didn't see me in high school," he joked.

"Because that was clearly _decades _ago," Miguel retorted dryly.

Stiles gave a soft laugh that made Miguel's arm around his waist shift pleasantly against his skin. "Eons and eons," he joked.

Miguel's hand started moving lazily, tracing a stripe up and down his spine. "Oh, God, please tell me you're not actually still _in _high school, are you?" he asked with a small groan, a thread of real concern lacing his tone.

"Noope," Stiles drew the sound out, ending it with a little pop and looking amused. "Totally legal." He played with some of the short dark curls laying against Miguel's neck. "And totally wishing I could have sex with you, like, a dozen more times," he admitted easily, his lack of filter making its usual appearance.

Miguel shifted, looking up at him wryly. "Well, I wouldn't say no," he drawled with a little smirk. "_Give me a minute, _maybe, but not _no_."

Stiles grinned, eyebrows raising. He hadn't actually meant right _now, _but the little sparkle of heat in gut at Miguel's expression told him he might not be as totally exhausted as he'd thought. His fingers traced up and down Miguel's bicep. "Aren't you the spunky one?" His face curled into a brilliant smile. "Ha! Oh, hey, that's like a pun. Get it? Spunky..."

Miguel groaned and pressed his eyes shut. "Oh, God, Stiles. Shut up." He leaned in and kissed Stiles softly, which did, in fact, cut off whatever retort he might have come up with. They made out again for a while as if feeling the need to make up for lost time, or perhaps compensating for the repressed, unspoken knowledge that this might be the only time they would have the opportunity.

"Either you are the world's best hot water bottle, or the weather is being really obliging," Stiles sighed when they finally separated, his lips attractively swollen and flushed from so much kissing. "I'm not even cold. This all turned out kinda perfect." he murmured contentedly.

Somewhere outside an animal howled in the distance, faintly audible through the thick walls around them. The sound was wild, primal and remote, bringing home the strange otherworldly isolation of their surroundings. Stiles shivered slightly, although he wasn't afraid.

Miguel's arm tightened around his waist. "It's nothing, you hear that kind of thing a lot out here. Whatever's out there won't bother us," he assured. "And I have the shotgun if they do."

Stiles smiled at the protectiveness in Miguel's tone. "Save me from the ravening beasties, will you?" he teased sarcastically but fondly, earning him a half-hearted scowl. "It's so surreal out here," he remarked, fingers tracing the lines of Miguel's clavicle. "So empty. I never realized I was a city boy until there was suddenly all this ... _nothing. _I mean, I grew up next to a nature preserve, but this is different. It kind of feels like I'm in some other, parallel world out here. Just you, me, half-century old kidney pudding and cattle bones. It's like being on an island, or another planet or something."

Miguel gave a small shrug, his hand working slow circles against the small of Stiles' back as if he just liked touching him. "It's something about the desert. I felt like that too when I first came here."

"Where were you before?" Stiles asked, his instinctive curiosity rearing its head as his mind slotted away the fact that Miguel was apparently not local. His fingers trailed through the short, dark curls of hair on Miguel's chest

Miguel shrugged again, leaning forward to suck lightly on the side of Stiles' neck. "Up north," he answered vaguely. "I've moved around a lot."

Stiles hummed contentedly in his throat, the sound turning into a small moan as Miguel started sucking a little harder, as if determined to leave his mark on Stiles' pale skin. The warm, demanding suction sent tingles dancing through his stomach. "So you said. Why?" he asked curiously, even though he knew Miguel was being evasive again.

Miguel sucked harder. Stiles inhaled sharply, body shuddering as blunt teeth pressed down on his wet skin. It hurt in a strangely delicious way that was only enhanced by Miguel's hand sliding down between them and squeezing his sensitized cock.

_"Nnnh..."_ Stiles breathed the sound, body twitching as he instinctively rolled himself against his lover in reaction to the stimulus. The thought flittered across his sex-sogged brain that Miguel may intentionally be distracting him, but honestly, he was pretty okay with that. Miguel's mouth moved to his shoulder, biting him again as he slowly fisted the teen's cock and Stiles' tired muscles contracted spasmodically, the arousal welling through him feeling hot and shaky. His nerves felt raw, overworked. The sensation of pleasure on his already twice sated body was almost painful, but in the same strangely good way that Miguel's mouth and teeth bruising into his flesh felt good. His hand curled in the hair at the back of Miguel's head, fingers digging into his scalp.

"Maybe I just don't like to stay in one place too long," Miguel murmured against Stiles' reddening, spit slick skin after a few moments. "What about you? Where are you from? What do you do when you're not taking weird, out of season vacations to remote places? What's your real life like?"

By now, Stiles had thoroughly forgotten the original question. He looked at Miguel with a dazed expression, flushed lips parted and eyes glazed. "Huh?" he murmured hoarsely, hips thrusting into Miguel's grip in short, trembling little jerks, his muscles shaky and uncoordinated from over-use and all the post-sex chemicals floating about in his brain. "M-my what?"

"Your real life." Miguel squeezed him a little harder and Stiles almost whimpered. "The one you're going back to when you drive away from here. What's it like?" There was something dark behind Miguel's eyes, but it seemed more sad than dangerous. Sad, wistful, lonely and jealous. There was an intensity of longing in his expression that cut through Stiles like a knife.

Stiles felt a traitorous stinging starting behind his eyes and he blinked it away quickly. He didn't understand Miguel's self imposed isolation, but the bleakness of the man's loneliness and yearning reverberated painfully in his chest, making him ache. At the same time, the questions hit far too close to home. What _was _his "real life" anymore? How could he answer Miguel when he had no answers himself? He'd been speaking the truth when he said he felt like he was in a different world out here, one where he didn't have to think too much about anything. He wasn't ready for reality to intrude back into it. Not yet. Not now when everything had been so perfect.

Stiles reached down between them and caught Miguel's warm, semi-firm erection in his hand, stroking him purposefully. "Nothing interesting," he murmured a little hoarsely, leaning in to kiss Miguel's neck. He mimicked Miguel's actions from before, sucking and biting softly, tasting salty skin under his tongue. "My life's totally boring, dude. Or it _was..._" he added, lifting his head back enough to give Miguel a wry little smile. "Much more interesting now."

Miguel was hardening rapidly in Stiles' hand. Some of the sharpness had slipped away from the older man's expression, replaced by a glaze of pleasure. The loneliness was still there though, a dark void Stiles found himself aching to fill even though he knew how impossible and foolish it was to feel that way.

After all, what was this, really? A one night fling with someone whose real name he probably didn't even know. That was the reality of it. The reality was that he would leave tomorrow. He would probably never see Miguel again and that thought should not hurt. It should _not. _He had had his fantasy fling with the hot mechanic and it had been awesome. He'd never intended this to be anything more, so he should be perfectly okay with that being the end of it. He _needed_ to be okay with it and maybe with a little time and a couple hundred miles he would be, but right now ... Right now, he didn't want to think about it. _Not at all._

Disentangling only just enough to roll to the edge of the narrow bed, Stiles reached down, fumbling over the side. He patted around blindly until he found what he sought on the floor. Ripping open the condom packet he retrieved, he rolled it onto Miguel with slightly trembling fingers.

Miguel caught his wrist, looking up at him, eyes dark with desire and questioning. "What are you...?"

"I told you we were going to use them all," Stiles murmured huskily, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "You think I was joking?" His gaze was full of lust. He sought to show Miguel only his desire, and not the more complex, confused emotions that the other man didn't deserve to have to deal with. Not when Stiles had made it so abundantly clear up front he wasn't looking for anything other than pleasure from their encounter.

If this was all he could have, if tonight was his only chance, Stiles was damn well going to take everything he could get. He was just being stupid and letting all the feel-good sex chemicals get to his emotions and make a muck of things. He'd feel differently later. Later it would somehow all work out. Right now, he just wanted to fuck until he couldn't think about anything else.

Swinging his knee over, Stiles rolled atop Miguel, straddling his hips. Supporting himself with a hand braced on the mattress on either side of Miguel's shoulders, he rolled their hips together, sliding his body against Miguel's cock.

Miguel shuddered underneath him, wrapping a hand around the back of Stiles' neck and pulling him down like he was holding onto an anchor in a storm. "You're going to be the death of me," he murmured, voice hitching as Stiles rubbed against him insistently.

"Miguel..." Stiles murmured, kissing his neck ardently. _"Miguel ... Miguel ..."_ he whispered the name over and over like a prayer, like a lifeline, like something he wanted to burn into his soul and keep there forever.

The man under him shuddered. Strong hands gripped his shoulders tightly. The older man twisted his chin and caught Stiles' mouth, kissing him hard and deep and almost desperately. When they broke apart Stiles was well and truly breathless. Miguel's gaze caught and held him, so intense he momentarily forgot to gasp for the air he needed. Miguel looked as if he was drowning, and Stiles felt like they were going together. There was something indefinable in the man's dark eyes. A longing and desperation that bordered on recklessness.

"Derek," he whispered hoarsely, his gaze burning into Stiles like he was giving him something precious, something frightening and dangerous and meaningful. "Just for tonight ... please ... call me Derek."

Stiles face lit with a smile he felt down to the core of his being. He could sense the importance of the confidence being handed to him even if he didn't understand it. _Derek. _ He knew in that instant that he would never utter the name outside this room. Not ever in his entire lifetime, if necessary, because if Miguel... if _Derek_ had some reason to hide his identity, then Stiles would trust those reasons were important. He would keep Derek's secrets and be worthy of the faith being placed in him. Even if he never saw him again... he had this to hold onto, at least. This unexpected gesture of openness and trust. This small bit of truth about this man with whom he'd shared so little and yet so much. It meant a lot to him.

_"Derek..." _he breathed, tasting the sound of it on his lips and finding it delicious. "_Derek... _I like it. It fits you," he whispered. The name rolled around in Stiles' brain and he found that he wanted to use the hell out of it. He wanted to murmur it in desperation and scream it in ecstasy. "_Derek, _I want you," he murmured, grinding against Derek's now fully erect cock, sliding his hips until the tip was playing against his still slick and slightly sore entrance. "Fuck me, Derek... fuck me until I'm screaming your name." _Fuck me until I forget that I'm leaving tomorrow. Fuck me until you ask me __**not **__to leave tomorrow... even if both of us know that could probably never work out in the long term. _

Stiles had never said anything so daring or so dirty before. He felt heat beginning to rise in his cheeks, but Derek's visceral reaction halted him from feeling truly awkward. Derek's chest hitched and shuddered beneath him, body twitching and trembling as if Stiles had delivered an actual, physical shock to his system that had taken his breath away.

The intense green eyes reflected like heated pools of desire and awe in the dim light. Strong, callused hands clamped down on Stiles' hips. Then they were both kissing and grinding in an urgent, needy haze of lips, tongues and slick, hard flesh. Derek murmuring and moaning beneath Stiles, breathless gasps that sounded like _"Yeah... yeah..."_

* * *

**_A/N: OMG I can finally start calling him Derek, FINALLY. :P So, quick poll - there's two ways I can go with this. I can write some more smut, because I do actually have an idea for how the rest of their sexy times would play out, or I can skip forward to when they're done and get back to the plot quicker. Hmm... what do you all think? What do you want to read? Which way should I go?_**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you everyone for your feedback on which way to go with this chapter, I appreciate it! Between here, AO3 and the PMs I've gotten, opinion seems to be pretty evenly divided between wanting to see more sex and wanting to go on to the plot. Sooooo, in an effort to please everyone (and myself, since this is really just the way it ended up working out best) I give you a chapter that has a bit of both! :)**

**We get a bit more sexy times in the beginning, and then a nice little dose of pretty major plot thickening. 0:) I hope you all like it!**

* * *

Stiles caught his lip between his teeth as he pushed himself back and down against Derek's cock as he straddled him, feeling the hard length slip inside him again. He was ready for pain, but it wasn't there this time, not like before, anyway. He was still stretched and slick from the last time and the lube on the new condom helped a bit as well.

Stiles _was_ still pretty tender from their previous round, but he pushed himself down hard into it, inhaling shakily at the way the stretching sensation seemed to scratch an itch deep inside even as it prickled and throbbed through him. He was over sensitized, but _God that was good. _He shifted back on his knees, taking Derek's cock to the base in one deep, hard motion, pressing their hips together and feeling, if not actually _seeing _stars behind his eyes when the hard length inside him hit his prostate.

Derek's knees had come up, his legs spread, and Stiles gripped onto them like handholds to steady himself as he rocked his body, lifting himself up only to impale himself back down again. He wasn't used to the position, it was a little more awkward than he might have expected and his body weight drove him down on Derek's cock a little harder and faster than was strictly comfortable, but the sensation was still amazing.

Derek looked like he was coming apart. His eyes were wide and dark, gaze completely transfixed as he watched Stiles fucking himself onto his dick, the boy's spread thighs trembling as he struggled to keep the pace he himself was setting. Derek's toned, muscular stomach heaved with both ragged breaths and convulsions of pleasure and he gripped onto the bedspread on either side of him, fingers digging into the mattress.

Stiles groaned, head falling back, body shaking as he spread his legs wider and tried to move faster still, his body aching and yet trembling with a bone-deep need for _more. _The angle was difficult to maintain, but it felt great and he had himself positioned _just right_.

_"Oh fuck, Derek..." _he moaned, transfixed by the way Miguel ... no ... _Derek _was looking at him. The older man's gaze shifted hungrily between Stiles' flushed, sweaty face and his body. Derek watched their bodies merging, watched himself sliding in and out of Stiles' spread ass with an intensity of interest that made Stiles' already burning face heat even further. His stomach trembled and he groaned, tilting his hips to give his lover an even better view.

Derek growled softly in his throat, a mix of helplessness and ferocity, like Stiles was utterly driving him wild.

Stiles' legs trembled harder, his thighs burning and cramping from the unaccustomed workout and his movements starting to become more jerky and faltering as it became hard to maintain.

Either observing his difficulty or simply unable to restrain himself, Derek's hands found his lover's hips again and he started helping, lifting Stiles and pulling him back down, hips rolling as he fucked up to meet each motion, striking deep and making Stiles groan and fall forward, almost whimpering as he supported himself on Derek's chest.

Derek rolled them over, pulling Stiles under him. It was a relief on Stiles' burning, weary muscles but the movement also made Derek slide out of him and he whined at the loss. His butt was throbbing and being filled was the only thing that kept him from focusing on the less pleasant side of that sensation. He was quickly getting addicted to the sensation of Derek's body. It was a raw craving beyond the reach of reason or sense.

Stiles flailed a little, pulling at Derek, trying to push them back together almost mindlessly. Derek caught his uselessly struggling wrists and pinned them down, leaning in to give him a deep, breath-stealing kiss before forcibly rolling him over onto his stomach. Stiles writhed, whining, his aching cock digging into the blanket. Derek's body pinned him in place. He couldn't get any friction going and his ass was still annoyingly empty. He'd come twice tonight already and although he was _more _than ready for another go, it was going to take a fair amount of stimulation to get him there. He was worked up, wanting and exhausted all at the same time and he could hardly think straight.

"Stop teasing!" he complained a little sharply when Derek bit lightly at the back of his neck, the man's thick arousal pressed against the small of his back as he held him down. "Enough with the touchy-touchy. Fucking fuck me already," he groused.

Derek laughed breathlessly against the back of his neck. "Damn, you're impatient," he chuckled.

"Yes. Yes I am. Very," Stiles responded with a mixture of annoyance and heat. "Very impatient for you to get your freaking dick inside me and fuck me senseless. Is that a problem?" he snarked.

Derek groaned, biting down harder on his neck and twitching against his back, causing Stiles to smile against the blanket. _Score one for him. _

"No. No problem at all," Derek acquiesced. "As you wish." The smile was obvious in his voice as his weight lifted off of Stiles. Sliding an arm under the teen's hips he lifted them. "Come on, Stiles, push your ass up for me if you want to get fucked," he coaxed in a dark, playful tone when Stiles flopped about as if not understanding his intention.

Stiles' body shuddered and he quickly scrambled to comply, allowing Derek to guide him up to his hands and knees. _Oh. OH. Yes. Yes yes __**yes**__. _ Stiles only realized he'd said the thought aloud when he heard Derek chuckle behind him. He tried to glare half-heartedly at the other man over his shoulder, but then Derek was gripping his hips and pushing into him in one hard, perfect movement and Stiles forgot about whatever he'd been going to say. His fingers curled into the rumpled blanket beneath him and he braced his knees wider apart, pushing back into Derek's thrust with an almost relieved groan.

Derek's hips met his ass and Stiles felt shaky frissions of heat and sensation zinging down his thighs and across his abdomen. Derek could get a _lot _deeper in this position and he found himself gasping for breath, hips grinding back against Derek of their own accord as if wanting everything he had to offer.

Derek grabbed his butt cheeks, spreading them almost painfully wide and jerking his hips a little further forward, as if in accord with Stiles' unspoken wish.

Stiles really did see stars this time, a small groan punching out of him. "F-fuck..." he gasped.

Derek pulled almost completely free only to thrust back in with breath-stealing force. Stiles cried out, pushed forward on his hands and nearly losing his grip on the sheets. Sparks and fireworks exploded inside him, the force of the pleasure setting all his limbs to trembling. Derek did it again, and again and Stiles pushed back into him as much as he was able, their flesh practically smacking together and making them both cry out.

"Oh fuck... fuck... _Derek!_" Stiles almost sobbed his name, arms shaking, body uncoordinated as he tried to push into the hard thrusts, tried to take _more. _

Cursing softly, Derek's hands clamped harder onto his hips, half assisting, half arresting Stiles' uncoordinated attempts and using the leverage to pull Stiles back powerfully into his thrusts. "Stiles... _Stiles!" _Derek's voice was utterly hoarse and breathless, sounding even more wrecked then Stiles felt. His hips pounded urgently, fucking into his lover at a punishing, almost brutal pace, his hands holding Stiles still for it and pulling him back into every motion.

It was a completely relentless, unbelievably raw and mind-blowingly passionate sensation. It was entirely too much for Stiles' already sore and overworked body, and yet entirely what he wanted. It hurt _so good, _although _hurt_ wasn't even the right word because it wasn't actually pain it was just sensation. Pure, bright, amazing, unbelievable overwhelming sensation.

Derek's cock was hard and insistent, pounding pleasure into him with every heartbeat, sending fire dancing along his nerves to pool unremittingly in his gut, like a devouring fire that needed more and more fuel the hotter it burned. Stiles' arms gave out and he fell to his elbows. Burying his face against the back of his hands he screamed softly into the blankets in pleasure, his whole body shaking with over-stimulation as Derek's motions jolted him back and forth on the bed, his aching, burning cock bouncing and slapping wetly against his stomach. He felt like he was going deliciously mad, like time and space and the universe had ceased to exist. _Holy crap. HOLY crap. _

Previous orgasms having left them both much further from the edge this time allowed the incredible pace to be maintained far longer than would otherwise have been possible. It still couldn't really have lasted _that_ long, but it still seemed to go on for a blissful, torturous eternity; Derek fucking him open until Stiles was completely wrecked and shaking in every limb, need and desire and sensation having swallowed him whole. He felt completely undone and exposed and yet also contradictorily safe and complete, like it was _okay _to come apart under Derek's hands because he would keep him together and not despise what he saw.

Stiles' raw ass was positively on fire, the friction and heat feeding straight into his desperately throbbing cock, the steady, repeated slap of Derek's hips practically spanking him and the constant jabbing against his prostate making him all but incoherent. It was so good, and too much, and exactly perfect and almost unbearable and he thought he might die.

Derek was gasping, almost sobbing against his shoulder, kissing and biting him mindlessly. Clearly, they were falling apart together and that just made it all the better. Derek's hands trembled on his hips, lips shaky against the sweat slick skin of his back as he pressed kisses, curses and desperate, formless words of awe and adoration into Stiles' flesh. "Oh God... _oh God_, Stiles..." Derek whispered his name over and over, telling him how amazing he was, how good he felt, how much Derek liked him and wanted him, telling him over and over, like he actually had no control over his voice anymore.

Stiles felt like he was soaring somewhere on another plane of existence, wrapped up in Derek's body and his voice and the sensations unfurling in his chest and groin that were connected and yet unconnected in ways he couldn't begin to explain. He was whining, writhing, keening. He couldn't stop the soft little cries pouring out of his mouth. Perspiration dripped into his eyes.

He felt bruised and oversensitive beyond belief, but that just added to the amazing intensity of the sensation. He rode the raw edge of climax for what felt like a long time, trapped in a deliciously unbearable limbo between the overabundance of stimulation from his ass and the lack of any stimulation to his cock. Derek was holding his hips up too high for his straining erection to touch the mattress and he was too shaky to let go of the bed, he needed both of his hands for purchase. So he hung there, suspended, feeling like he was living that amazingly agonizing moment before climax for an eternity.

He did scream Derek's name. Over and over, increasing in volume until Derek's large hand came up and clasped over his mouth. Derek's hips stuttered and jittered unevenly, his breath coming strange and uneven against Stiles' back as he reached the end of his endurance. His fingers pressed against Stiles' lips, gently muffling his screaming and pulling his head back. Stiles didn't think there was much point, seeing as there was no one out here but the buzzards and coyotes to hear them, but the sensation of Derek's hand over his mouth sent an unexpected jolt to his already over-heated groin and suddenly the pleasure pounding through him surged past the breaking point. His muscles jerked taut, hard spasms twitching and jolting through him in prolonged, unbelievable waves as he came so hard he nearly whited out.

His body sagged limply against the bed, completely and utterly exhausted and content. Leftover bliss shuddered randomly through him like haphazard little short-circuits as Derek collapsed beside him and pulled him into his arms. They were both so hot from their strenuous activities that Stiles found it almost uncomfortably warm to be this close to Derek's heat, but his lover seemed to need the physical contact and the truth was Stiles did, too. He felt raw, vulnerable and exposed. It wasn't a _bad_ sensation in this context, but it was a deeply intimate one.

Stiles' eyelids were heavy and his body far more sore than he wanted to take stock of at the moment. He curled contentedly against the strong, softly heaving body beside him and let his forehead rest against Derek's arm. He smiled at the other man even as his eyes drifted shut. He was very thirsty, but he knew he'd have to wait until they got back to the station, so he tried not to focus on that. He found his eyelids too heavy to lift again and there was a blissful weariness pressing down upon him with gentle, insistent force.

_He just needed to close his eyes for a minute. Just needed to catch his breath and let himself cool off. Then ... then he'd... _

Derek stroked his fingers lightly across Stiles' naked hip and the curve of his waist, knowing from the slackness of the younger man's body and the evening out of his breathing that his lover had fallen asleep. He was exhausted too, but he blinked away the scratchy leadenness so he could watch Stiles sleep a little longer. There was something soft and attractive about it. Something compelling about the completely undeserved trust being handed him. Face relaxed, long black lashes brushing his freckle-dusted cheeks, Stiles looked so much younger when he slept. He looked like a boy.

Derek's fingers moved to card slowly through Stiles' damp, wild tangle of brown hair. Spiky and unruly at the best of times, it currently looked like the victim of a bomb blast or a tornado. It was ridiculous and ridiculously attractive at the same time, much like Stiles as a whole. He was absurdly enticing crouching next to Derek, studiously listening as he explained how part of the engine assembly worked. He was unsettlingly compelling making mocking quips and arguing baseball minutia. And he was nothing short of breathtaking when he was flushed and naked, bucking underneath Derek and gasping as they fucked. Just the memory alone was enough to send Derek's pulse pounding through his veins.

Objectively, he'd noticed the kid was attractive when he first showed up, but he hadn't _really _started looking at him until after the night of the baseball game. He'd tried to tell himself to stop, but that hadn't worked out so well, despite the potential danger for both of them and his own well ingrained wariness.

Stiles had fallen into his life like a stone splashing into a pond, casting crazy ripples in every direction. Derek had learned to distrust and fear that kind of unexpected chaos. It usually brought bad things. He told himself it was no good feeling drawn to that wide, mischievous smile, those intelligent dark brown eyes and that smart mouth. No good feeling attracted to this strange young man who dug through his things and asked too many questions. This fidgety, awkward boy with his ridiculous reason for being out here, who didn't want to talk about his past or why he was carrying around rolls of cash. There were so many danger signals, _too many _... and yet ... and yet, here they were.

Derek had foolishly given Stiles everything he needed to betray him if that's what he was after, but in his heart, he did not truly believe that whatever was up with Stiles had anything to do with him. At least, that's what he told himself, because surely, if he believed that little ingrained gnaw of suspicion in the back of his brain, he would never have let this happen between them, right?

No, Stiles was just a weird, kind of sweet young man who didn't think things through, talked too much and had obviously lousy taste in men. Derek _needed _to believe that, because the past few days had been the first time he'd felt happy in years, and tonight ... tonight had been _incredible_. Derek was only just beginning to understand how unexpectedly deep Stiles had already burrowed into his heart and he needed this to be real. He needed it to not be another mistake. Lord knew, he'd already made too many.

This had possibly been the best thing that had ever happened to him, but deep down, he knew he probably should not have fallen into the sweet, sweet temptation Stiles presented to him. For Stiles' sake as much as his own. The young man had no idea the potential danger of getting involved with him.

Derek had _almost_ done the right thing and tried to warn him, but what was there that he could say? Surely, it would be all right. Stiles would be fine. Everything had been quiet for so long and Stiles was only passing through. All too soon, he'd be gone. That thought burned like acid in the lonely places of Derek's soul, but he tried to hold onto it as a comfort instead, as a justification. Stiles wouldn't be in his life long enough to be tainted by his curse. So maybe he could have this, this little bit of something normal, of something he _wanted, _and it wouldn't lead to disaster, like ... _like it always did._

Derek pressed his eyes shut. Memories played through his mind, their paths familiar and worn. He didn't fight his demons. He didn't try not to remember when they came. He embraced them as a penance and a warning. He made himself watch. He regularly forced himself to remember and to relive it. _All of it._ Over and over. Because those who were gone deserved to be remembered, and he could never afford to forget. Could never let himself make the same mistakes again.

_Flames reaching towards the sky in the middle of the afternoon. Strong, gloved hands pulling him back, kicking and screaming as the heat scorched off his eyebrows and burned his skin. Feet running wildly through the moonlight. Crimson spreading like a blossom around the cruel wooden haft of an arrow. Blood trickling from gasping lips, bubbling as they tried to speak to him one last time. One last word from the beloved voice he'd never hear again. "Run."_

His mind tried to pull away, traitorously unwilling to trod these familiar and painful paths right now, not when he'd just felt so good and had such a wonderful time. Guilt followed quickly and he viciously forced himself to look. To see it all over again, to remember the look in her eyes, the horror, the pain, the loss..._ everything he had done to her. Everything for which he could never be forgiven. _

He would have died for her. He **should **have died for her. He hadn't. So he forced himself to relive the moment over and over until he was shaking. _Don't you __**ever**__ fucking forget. _

Breathing harshly through his mouth, Derek's stinging eyes sprung open again. His hand had turned into a fist in Stiles' hair, gripping much too tightly. Stiles didn't wake, just stirred and murmured wordlessly, pressing his naked, sticky body closer to Derek instead of trying to escape, a faint smile fluttering across his bruised lips. Whatever his dreams were, they were pleasant.

The peaceful sight of Stiles' sleeping form and the comfortable weight of his body grounded Derek back to the present and he let the burning images in his mind slip away like sand through his fingers.

His fingers gentled again. His increasingly leaden mind was too tired for any more self-flagellation and wearily contented itself with focusing much more pleasantly on the boy in his arms, instead. Maybe he shouldn't have let this happen, but the truth was he didn't regret it. He was only human. He had been alone so long and Stiles ... Stiles was like a force of nature.

Derek traced the smooth, youthful curve of one freckled, angular cheekbone with his thumb. He honestly couldn't understand why the boy seemed to think he was unattractive. Maybe Stiles really was still growing into his body and had yet to realize that the moth was blossoming into the butterfly. It happened that way sometimes. The teenage years could be brutal. Derek should know, he had spent years as a shy, baby-faced loser who was all elbows and knees and could barely bring himself to talk to people. Maybe if he'd ever felt like he belonged it would have been different. Maybe if he'd ever been in once place long enough to join one of the sports teams he'd admired longingly from afar, or been at one school long enough to get past being the new kid and make some friends ... but that was never meant to be and in the end, he hadn't even finished school, so it wasn't like it mattered.

Stiles shifted in his sleep, a small frown creasing his face. A soft, hoarse whine escaped his lips. Clearly, his dreams had taken a turn for the worse and Derek found himself inexplicably drawn to comfort him. Leaning down he kissed Stiles' forehead. Gentle, chaste pressure meant to reassure.

Stiles unconsciously burrowed closer to him. _"Don't be mad. Not my fault. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry,"_ he slurred, murmuring in his sleep, the words trailing off into an incoherent, pleading, repetitive apology.

Derek knew Stiles was speaking to his dreams where he was probably in a very different type of situation, and tried not to be disturbed by being mistaken for the boy's father. Instead he just wrapped his arms reassuringly around Stiles and held him, rubbing his back gently. "It's okay, Stiles. You're only dreaming. It's okay," he whispered, wondering if he should wake him.

Stiles didn't wake, but his tense body did relax in Derek's arms and the murmuring stopped, eventually trailing off into a gentle snoring.

Stiles' skin was literally sticking to Derek at this point and as much as his body was telling him he needed to rest for a while, he felt like he should do something to clean them both up a little and at least get them under the blanket. He was starting to feel uncomfortably exposed.

* * *

Stiles had no memory of how he'd ended up under the old blanket instead of on top of it. He woke groggily to the sensation of someone shaking him. It was pitch dark and he didn't understand why anyone would want to be up right now, so he grumbled and rolled over, sliding easily back into sleep.

This happened several times and he was vaguely aware of Derek saying something about needing to get up, and the station, and _whatever_, but he couldn't bring his mind to focus or care when he was so sleepy.

The next thing he was aware of it was uncomfortably cold, the blanket was gone and so was Derek. He felt rather than saw his clothes on the bed next to him, his jeans cool under his touch. A jolt of panic went through him at the thought that he'd been abandoned and he sat up quickly, blinking back sleep and trying to fumble into his jeans before he was properly awake.

"Derek?" he called uncertainly, then hesitated, not sure he had license to use that name anymore. "Miguel?" he tried instead.

To his relief, Derek's form appeared immediately in the doorway, outlined in the faint moonlight. "Finally awake, are you? Come on, get dressed, we should get back."

Stiles couldn't see Derek's face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice and his heart slowed back down. He yawned, drawing his socks on more slowly and noticing with a wince how much his body protested the motion. "Back? Dude, what _time_ is it?"

Derek's outline shrugged. "Don't know. Couple hours to dawn, maybe. We slept most of the night."

Stiles gave him a stink-eyed expression that was probably lost in the gloom. "Clearly, our definitions of _most _are very different," he grumbled as he pulled on his tee and shoved his feet into his shoes. "What the hell kind of freak gets up before dawn," he muttered.

Stiles would have happily slept until noon, but Derek seemed anxious to get back to the station and the longer Stiles was awake the more he was realizing how terribly thirsty and in need of a bath he was. His mouth was so dry it felt like a hangover and he was sticky and gummy in all kinds of unmentionable places. He was also very stiff and very sore, facts he discovered clearly when he got up and tried to walk. Hiking back to the station wasn't going to be pleasant, but he'd manage. Maybe he could nap for a while when they got back. Derek couldn't possibly object if he needed more sleep ... needed to, say... stay a little longer? Stiles knew he was probably asking for trouble, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He really, _really _didn't want to leave. Not yet.

Derek had disappeared again. It was almost pitch black in the room, but Stiles' sleepy eyes were fully adjusted to the darkness and the moonlight coming in through the partially open door acted as a beacon, leading him out into the cool embrace of the night. Derek was standing a few feet away, at the top of the broken stairs leading down to the bomb shelter.

Stiles limped to him, feeling wobbly and exhausted, but undeniably happy. His body was telling him he should have taken it a little easier and perhaps not shown quite so much abandon on his first outing, but Stiles made a habit of jumping into things at the deep end and he wasn't sorry.

Derek was fully dressed with the shotgun tucked under one arm. He was studying the inert flashlight in his hands, whacking the handle softly against his palm with a frown. "Batteries are dead," he told Stiles as the teen joined him. "I forgot to turn it off," he admitted a little sheepishly.

Stiles understood now why it had seemed so much darker than when he'd fallen asleep. He eyed the sky, blinking up at the full, pale moon hanging low above them within the majestic firmament of infinite stars you could only see in places like this, far away from the light pollution of urban sprawl.

Forgetting what he'd been doing, Stiles just stood there for a minute, wavering and gawking up at the majesty of the sky in hazy, sleepy wonder. It was breathtaking. "Dude... I can _see _the Milky Way, and ... like ... why they even _call _it that," he remarked, apropos of nothing except what was going through his own head. He kept his chin tilted towards the sky, a soft, unfocused smile on his face. "Don't know about the _milky _part though, it's more like a - a scarf or something. The _Scarf-y Way_... yeah, okay, no, Milky is better, even if it does sound like a candy bar which is kind of making me really hungry. I didn't realize sex would make me so hungry and thirsty, by the way."

Stiles looked back towards Derek to get his opinion on this topic only to find the other man watching him with a deeply amused and decidedly fond expression. He frowned, eyes squinting. "What?!"

Derek shook his head. "Nothing. I've never met anybody who ... talks quite like you do."

Stiles shrugged, grin turning wry. "That's because I'm just special. So. Anyway. The moon. The moon is pretty bright tonight. Think we can make it back okay without the flashlight, or will we, like break our necks or something?" he asked around an unexpected yawn. As much as he'd wanted to stay and sleep before, he now found the lure of water to both drink and wash with beckoning him from afar like a siren song. Scratches he hadn't even realized he had on his hipbones and inner thighs were starting to sting and smart and his tongue felt too large inside an inordinately sore mouth.

Derek shook his head, seeming unconcerned about the lack of artificial light. "No, we should be fine. I know the way back and it's not a very challenging route. We'll be careful and it will be fine."

"Okay," Stiles agreed amiably. He was trying to move as normally as possible but by the time they'd made their way up the steep incline leading out of the ravine it was obvious he was struggling.

Derek slowed, coming to a halt beside him and regarding Stiles with concern. "Hey, are you okay?"

Stiles grinned ruefully. "_Dude_, I feel like a locomotive plowed my ass, but yeah, I'm good. Really good. Although I _do _need a drink and a shower something fierce."

Derek's cheeks colored enough for it to be visible in the moonlight. He looked embarrassed and guilty and a little aroused all at the same time. "I'm sorry," he apologized sincerely. "Is there anything I can do? Should we wait? Maybe you should rest more."

"Oh _now _you think of that," Stiles teased. He shook his head, having already been thinking through the pros and cons of the available options. "Nah, it will probably actually be worse when the sun comes up and everything gets hot and sweltery again, besides, I'm _parched_. I can make it, I'll be fine."

They made slow progress, both because of the darkness and because Derek was being careful to keep his pace to whatever was most comfortable for Stiles. He eventually gave the younger man a supporting arm to lean on as they neared the last leg of their walk, which Stiles did not refuse.

"You know..." Derek said eventually. "You probably shouldn't go driving right away in your ... condition."

Stiles grinned at him, eyes dancing in the starlight. "Are you asking me to stay a little longer?"

Derek flushed and looked down, as if knowing he'd said something he shouldn't but unable to bring himself to take it back. "If you can," he said softly. "If you don't have better places to be."

"Can't think of any right now." Stiles' smile was radiant. He felt deeply relieved at the prospect of their parting being postponed, even if only for a while. He knew he'd have to go eventually, of course. He knew that sooner or later he'd have to leave this lovely little fantasy and face the world again, and the consequences of what sent him out here in the first place ... but not yet. _Not yet._

Stiles Stilinski was good at ignoring problems until they either went away or blew up spectacularly in his face. He'd rather not think about how often it turned out the latter, rather than the former.

Derek said nothing but he looked pleased, giving Stiles' arm a little squeeze.

After a while they finally reached the hill overlooking the station. Stiles felt relieved when he recognized where they were, but frowned curiously as they neared the top of the rise and became able to see the station below through the trees. Beside him, Derek froze in his tracks.

There were two unfamiliar cars parked out front of the station, motors silent and lights off. Having left abruptly and planned to return much sooner, Derek and Stiles had not turned off either the diner or the station lights before they departed. The glow they cast illuminated human shapes moving about down below in the predawn twilight.

For a moment, Stiles was afraid that Derek had been right and it might be the kids from town come back to cause trouble, but there was no sound of raucous voices, music or active vandalism in progress and as he squinted he realized the strangers were definitely not teenagers.

"Huh," he murmured. "Looks like you've got more lost customers." Stiles started to take another step forward, but Derek grabbed his arm, jerking him back and keeping him in the cover of the trees. He pressed his hand over Stiles' mouth to silence his questions and this time it was not sexy, this time it was frightening because Derek's face had gone pale and there was _fear _in his eyes.

"Shh!" Derek hushed, voice barely a whisper as he nudged them both carefully further back into the concealing trees. In the moonlight below, Stiles could just make out the shape of four large men and a pretty blonde woman whose hair looked platinum in the pale light.

"Those aren't customers," Derek murmured almost inaudibly and Stiles realized the hand gripping his wrist was trembling from either fear or anger. Maybe both.


	9. Chapter 9

In the stillness of the night, Stiles and Derek could just faintly hear the voices of the people below. Whispers or even normal, low speech would have been lost to them, but it wasn't hard to hear the woman. She was on the phone and she was angry, both of which made her clear, melodic voice loud enough to carry. They seemed to be coming in on the tail end of some conversation.

"_Goddamn_ it, Reed!" the woman seethed. "I told you to take 754, not Centerville! You're twenty miles north of us on the wrong road, of _course _you don't see us. If we miss him because of you, I will have your balls, you hear me? And I don't mean _figuratively._" She must have hung up then, because her hand dropped away from her ear. She addressed her other companions in exasperation and only slightly lowered tones. "Can you believe that idiot? Time is of the essence and he can't fucking read a road sign."

Stiles thought this Reed guy was probably getting a worse rap than he actually had coming for the error. Once you got off the highway, the route out here was poorly marked. He remembered passing the Centerville exit, and to be fair, there _was_ a directional sign for rural route 754 right before it that made it kind of confusing. Stiles had gone by it, thought he'd missed the turn, and was actually looking for some place to turn around when he'd accidentally stumbled on the right exit after all.

The people below were still speaking. Stiles lost a few words here or there as the voices dropped, but he got the impression that whoever they were, the strangers had likely already been waiting here for some time. One of the men, a fellow in a cowboy hat, seemed particularly impatient and dissatisfied.

"You ask me, bringing Reed up here is nothing but a waste of time," Cowboy Hat remarked, his annoyed voice just loud enough to be audible.

"I don't believe anyone _did _ask you," the woman retorted tartly, an edge of dark amusement coloring her irritation.

Cowboy Hat continued regardless. "It makes no sense for the kid to run on foot when he's at a fucking garage surrounded by cars. I'm telling you, he lit out of here, _in a car_, and is probably a hundred miles away by now while we're sitting here with our thumbs up our asses." The tone of his voice suggested that this was not their first disagreement. "We should be out there chasing him down."

Slowly, with exaggerated care, the woman lifted her phone and made another call, pointedly staring at Cowboy Hat the whole time.

"Sven, it's Kate. Have you seen anyone on the road heading south? No? Okay, thanks." She hung up and repeated the procedure, this time asking a guy named Mike about the road to the north. Then she turned back to her companion. "Happy? If he _is _out there on the road, we'll find him, don't you worry your pretty little head," the woman's tone was mocking.

Cowboy Hat seemed the exact opposite of happy. If anything, the news made him even more agitated. "Oh, _your _people are watching the road while _we_ wait here. I _see,_" he said caustically, his voice laden with an insinuation that Stiles didn't understand.

Stiles couldn't see the woman very well at this distance, but when she spoke again her tone of voice suggested she was smirking. "Yes, Yates. I know how to cover my bases. Imagine that. I also have people watching both Elmira and Gold Ridge in case he somehow miraculously slides past us and makes it that far, but he won't. Hale _didn't_ drive away. There's half eaten food in the building. He and his companion didn't plan their departure. They must have heard us coming and lit out into the woods, knowing it would be too easy to spot and pursue the lights of another car on a single road this deserted. If they hit the road, don't you think they would have taken the fully packed car sitting out front? Those tracks going up the hill..."

"I know, I know, the _tracks_," Cowboy Hat, whose name was apparently Yates, griped. He sounded unconvinced and imbibed the last word with the type of inflection one generally reserved for talking about snake oil and Big Foot. "_They go off into the woods and disappear among the rocks. Two people went this way, both male, one a little shorter than the other_," he badly parroted a high, woman's voice and then snorted. "Give me a break, Annie Oakley. There's no way for us to know when those were made, or how long the kid's been gone. We've been here for _two fucking hours_. We searched and there's _nothing. _Bringing in a whole _pack _of dogs isn't going to change that. Let's cut the crap. You think I don't know what you're doing?" his tone had become accusing.

Kate folded her arms. "Oh? And what exactly, is that?" she asked in a sickly sweet tone of voice that said exactly how little patience she had left for this discussion. The raised voices had brought two more men out into view from around back of the diner, bringing the total number of visible strangers up to seven. One of the men drifted subtly into a flanking positions behind the woman, while the other four milled around near Yates, their body language subtly dividing them up into whose side of the issue they were on. If being outnumbered worried the woman, she didn't show it.

"You're stalling, Kate," Yates accused, flatly. "Keeping me and my boys here cooling our heels while your people try to pick him up on the road. Don't think I don't know how you operate, or how much you need this win in your column to fix you up with the big guy. You're pissed off because _our_ man located and identified Hale first. We did all the work and now you're trying to weasel us out of the bounty. I heard how things went down in Lawrenceville. You're not going to stick me with the short end of the stick like you did Granger, screw that. You want word to get around that this is how you do business? I think - "

Kate moved with the abrupt and deadly grace of a striking viper and an instant later Yates was flat on his back, the sharp, pointed heel of her boot pressed against his throat. "You _think_?" she purred, sounding more amused than angry and somehow managing to be all the more frightening for it. "Really? Because I can't say I've seen any indication of that yet, Yates," she continued with dark humor, her words crisp and clear and carrying despite the lowered tone.

Suddenly everyone was holding weapons and it looked like a gun convention. Yates' four guys had hand guns and Kate's companion had something bigger. It looked like some kind of automatic weapon, Stiles couldn't really tell from here. Kate's handgun was pointed down towards Yates in an almost casual fashion and she did not bother to even look up at the others, or acknowledge the stand-off, as if it mattered not at all to her.

"Are you really this stupid?" she asked calmly, pressing down harder on the man's neck. "How do you think this is going to go down? You think there would ever be a hole deep enough for you, for _any _of you to hide in if anything happened to me?"

Everyone remained tense, but there was a slight, uneasy shifting in Yates' companions posture that seemed to indicate they knew her threat was not empty.

"Oh, precious, you just don't think things through, do you?" Kate crooned. "Maybe you're a big splash in your little pond, but you're playing in the big leagues now. You're not nearly as indispensible as you think and let's not forget who is paying whom, here. You think I give two shits about _money_ as long as the job gets done? Granger couldn't hack it. He fucked up, and dead weight gets cut. You going to start being dead weight, Yates? Because I will put up with having your cute but regrettably not very bright ass around for _exactly_ as long as you are useful to me," the woman warned. "Don't put stock in any rumors you've heard_._ I've got no problems with the _'big guy,_'" she hooked ironic air quotes around the term he'd used. "He just likes to play his little games. Wants to make sure I stay sharp ... and trust me, Yates, I could use _you_ like a grindstone all day long." She managed to infuse both biting sarcasm and derogatory innuendo into the statement.

"Now, up until this bout of complete stupidity, you and your crew _have _been relatively useful, so I'm not going to bury you right here. Not _yet, _okay?" her voice had become disturbingly cheerful. "But, you need to understand right now that if you _ever_ speak to me like that again, you're going to lose something ... _important_." Kate ground her heel down harder, making the man under her yelp and squirm. "And get your facts straight. Annie Oakley was a sharp shooter, not a tracker. When _you _have bagged as many big game prizes as I did by the time I was _fourteen, then _you can talk to me about reading signs. Until then, do us all a favor, love and just stand around looking pretty. You ruin everything when you open your mouth, you really do."

_Well hot damn ... _Stiles' eyebrows were riding up near his hairline as he watched the exchange. He didn't get to see any more of it, however, because Derek seemed to have finally unfrozen himself and was now quietly but insistently pulling Stiles backwards and away.

"They're bringing in dogs to track us," Derek whispered urgently against Stiles' ear. "We have to get out of here."

Even knowing as little as he did about what was going on, Stiles had to agree that was probably a good suggestion. Thus far, luck had been on their side. Thanks to their assignation, they hadn't been at the station when trouble arrived and had either been too far away to be within whatever radius these people had searched, or had had simply been overlooked in the darkness. The night was proving to be their friend and the lack of a working flashlight may have saved their lives. Any light up here on the hill would have been visible from the below before the station and the danger it contained was visible to them. Such an obvious beacon in this dark landscape would surely not have gone unseen. Having already been dealt so many favors by fortune, it seemed unwise to push their luck any further.

They were outnumbered and outgunned and although Stiles hadn't understood a lot of things about the conversations he'd just overheard, he _did_ understand that for whatever reason these people were after Derek and their behavior spelled TROUBLE in all caps. His mind was reeling with curiosity and nebulous supposition as he tried to make sense of the new data. There were a lot of unknowns, but one thing was certain: whoever these people were, he was in no great hurry to mess with them until he knew a whole hell of a lot more about what was going on.

Allowing Derek to pull him away, he followed the other man back the way they'd come. They slipped away as silently as they could, thankful for the darkness, the concealing trees and the soft carpet of dirt and pine needles that did not crunch or rustle noisily underfoot.

Once they'd made it a fair distance away, Derek seemed to judge it safe enough to risk making more noise by picking up the pace. Stiles tried to stay close on his heels, dodging around trees, climbing over boulders and scrambling down the steep sides of shallow ravines. Struggling through a rough patch of scrub growth and around a winding rocky outcropping, Stiles lost sight of the other man and he felt a knot of fear fist in his stomach. It was dark, he was completely turned around and he had no idea where he was or even who he was running from.

"Miguel!" he hissed, not daring to raise his voice above a whisper as he moved forward blindly in what he _hoped _was the right direction. "Miguel? Derek!" he switched names, no longer sure what he should be calling his companion as he strained to find him in the dark. There was crunch of feet moving against rock and Derek came back into view on the ridge opposite him. Holding out his hand wordlessly, he pulled Stiles up to join him and then took off again before Stiles could ask any of the million questions circling through his head.

"Wait! Where are we going? Who were those people?!" Stiles wanted to know, but he got no answer other than Derek's rapidly retreating back and his continued urgings to hurry. There was nothing to do but follow or get left behind.

His mind whirled, unable to stop trying to fit the new pieces he had into some kind of understandable shape even as he tried to navigate his aching body quickly across the rough terrain. He'd already assumed Derek was in hiding. It seemed a pretty safe bet those people back at the station were part of the reason. _ There was a bounty on him, but why? Was he in fact some kind of escaped fugitive and those were some really unsavory bounty hunters? Or were they professional killers and it was the "price on your head" kind of bounty? Why? Had Derek been part of some kind of underworld dealing gone wrong? An innocent victim who found out something they shouldn't? But if he had no reason to fear the law, why wouldn't Miguel ... Derek ... or whoever he was, have gone to the cops? _

There were too many possible threads to follow and Stiles wasn't up to cataloging them as well as usual, distracted by his burning muscles and the growing stitch in his side. He struggled to keep the dirty white back of Derek's sleeveless tee in sight. _Was he following a criminal through the darkness right now? _To be honest, Stiles wasn't sure that mattered to him much at the moment. Not unless Derek really was a serial killer or something, which he doubted. Of bigger concern was whether Derek was going to cut and run when he realized Stiles was slowing him down.

Stiles tried _not_ to slow him down. He tried to keep up, but he was limping badly now and his throat was so dry it burned. The demanding pace was brutal on his aching body. It _hurt. _It hurt so much tears were starting to gather in his eyes and he finally had to stop. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath, panting and clutching the stitch in his side even though that wasn't where the worst of the pain was coming from. _Shit, shit, shit._

Derek didn't realize he'd lost him at first, and Stiles had a few bad moments of feeling desolately sure the other man was going to just leave him behind before Derek doubled back to find him.

"Stiles? Stiles, we can't stop. Come on, we have to go," he urged, his drawn features looking decidedly grim in the moonlight.

"Easy for you to say, dude, you didn't just get fucked ten ways from Sunday," Stiles panted, made irritable and sarcastic by pain and the creeping edges of fear. His fingers dug into the rough tree bark as he tried to deal. "I wasn't _planning_ on going for a jog after having wild marathon sex, okay? This sucks. It _sucks. _And who the hell are those people anyway?"

Derek just shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, but there isn't time. You have to trust me; we need to move or we're going to die. I can... maybe I can carry you?"

Stiles knew there was no way that was going to work, not in this rough terrain. Across a level surface and at a more reasonable pace, Derek was probably strong enough to pull it off, but under these conditions it would just make Stiles even more of a hindrance than he already was. He was scared and confused and he wanted answers, _damn it!_ But Derek's fear and urgency was catching and he could feel it taking root in his gut and eating its way outward.

Giving Derek a flat look and muttering a pained, annoyed curse by way of answer, Stiles pushed off the tree and forced himself to keep going. Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he pulled on the years of endurance training from his Lacrosse and Track days in high school. He didn't work out, but he'd always been very active by nature and that stood him in good stead now.

They weren't exactly _running_; it was more of a hurried, loping power-walk. While the moonlight had been bright enough for a comfortable stroll, it did not serve nearly so well for navigating at full tilt through difficult and completely unfamiliar terrain. There were stretches when running was possible, but there was also a lot of groping around through puddles of darkness and fighting through biting brambles and undergrowth that sprang up unexpectedly, like spider webs in the darkness. _At least there were no giant fucking spiders,_ Stiles' mind supplied with an abysmal attempt at optimism.

They got turned around in a dead-end box canyon, and Stiles was almost certain he passed the same fallen tree twice. Thankfully, Derek had an almost unerring sense of direction and managed to get them out of the loop and on the move again.

The landscape blended into shapes and shadows, shifting shades of black edged in white and silver moonlight. Stiles no longer took in distinct features, merely the impression of it as a whole as he pushed on and on for what felt like an age. The journey never seemed to end and finally he had to stop again. Bruised thigh muscles trembling, calves burning and lungs heaving, he leaned his back against a tall boulder for support, making a time-out signal with his hands.

"Okay, okay, enough. Breather time. Breather," he gasped. Despite the coolness of the night, perspiration was running into his eyes and making his clothes cling to him. Running had only made his thirst worse and he was desperate for water.

Derek looked just as sweaty and almost as tired. He clearly didn't want to stop, but acquiesced silently to the need. Resting the shotgun he still carried butt down on the ground, he leaned against the rocks beside Stiles. Facing the bolder and resting his free hand and forehead against the cool stone ridges, he panted harshly for oxygen. His shoulders trembled with each heave of his lungs and Stiles didn't know if it was fatigue or something else. The other man's face had gone blank and unreadable, like he'd had a bad shock and was pulling deep into himself.

"Okay, yeah, breathing, breathing is good," Stiles mumbled as he started to catch his breath. "Now, how about you tell me _why _exactly we're running through the wilds in the middle of the night and who the gun toting psychos and crazy kickass blonde chick is?"

Derek pushed himself away from the rocks and shook his head. "Those dogs could be on our trail already," he protested breathlessly. "We need to make it to the river before they catch up; throw them off our scent. There's no -"

"_MAKE_ time," Stiles demanded, cutting him off. "I don't need the autobiography, dude, give me the cliff notes. I am not budging another step until I know who the hell I'm running _from _and _why._" Stiles remembered the distant swath of green he'd seen yesterday from the hilltop and guessed that must be the river Derek was heading them towards. Using it to hide their trail was a good idea, but Stiles was spent. He needed a few minutes before he could continue and he really, _really _needed answers.

Agitated, Derek ran one hand through his perspiration wet hair. He looked up at the stars for a long moment, then dropped his gaze to the earth. "Okay," he murmured. "Okay." He drew in a deep breath. Let it out. Closed his eyes. "The short version? When I was young, my parents were crucial witnesses against ... well, I guess you could call them a powerful criminal organization. Like the mafia, I suppose, only ... not. It's complicated."

Stiles blinked, eyes narrowing as his mind processed this with the other information he already knew. He got a feeling there was a lot more to this story, but he could work with a summary for now. "So, you're in witness protection? Does that mean there's, like, a Marshal or somebody we can contact?"

Derek shook his head, his eyes darkening. "No, I _was _in witness protection. I _was _in witness protection when they burned down our house with my parents and little sister inside. I _was still _in witness protection when they caught up with us again and killed my older sister, Laura. Not anymore. The FBI couldn't protect us. The roots go too deep, these people's influence is too far-reaching. Once, maybe was a fluke, but finding us twice? There had to be a leak somewhere. After Laura, I knew it would never stop so I just kept running. I don't know how the fuck they found me again, here, after all this time, but we _have_ to go. They are utterly ruthless and their idea of cleaning up loose ends is to eliminate them. I'd like to say the less you know, the safer you'll be, but the truth is it won't matter to them. If they find you with me, Stiles, they'll kill you just to be on the safe side."

Feeling like his eyes must look as wide as those of a cartoon character, Stiles struggled to take all this in. "Wow. Shit, Derek, man ... I'm sorry. That's - that's _horrible._" He knew that didn't _begin_ to cover it, but what else was there to say? There was so much horror to be had in the short explanation that it was almost unreal and that made it hard to process. It was the kind of thing you saw in movies, not in real life.

Stiles shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around it all. "It figures. Car breaks down, handsome stranger in the middle of nowhere with secrets ... I just _knew _this was going to end up more horror movie than romantic comedy," he groaned resignedly before he could think better of it. He probably shouldn't have said that. It seemed too petty and selfish after learning something so shockingly awful, but he had a lousy verbal filter at the best of times and now was decidedly _not _the best of times. He was hurting and on edge and fuck his life, seriously, _fuck his life_.

"I'm sorry," Derek apologized, looking away. "I'm sorry for getting you into this, I really am. Things had been quiet for so long, I thought ... but I should have known. I shouldn't have risked it. Come on. Come on, Stiles, we have to get going again. They're covering Elmira and Gold Ridge, but if we can make sure the dogs won't be able to track us, we can give them the slip and try to hike out to Barnett Hills. They won't expect us there. I hope."

"Barnett Hills? But that's like, 100 miles away!" Stiles protested, recognizing the name of the town and having a vague, general notion of its proximity. He wearily pushed off the rocks, stumbling after Derek as the other man started walking again. He wanted to tell Derek he didn't blame him. He knew he _shouldn't_ blame him, not after the truly awful crap it sounded like he'd been through, and he _didn't, _not really; but Stiles didn't have the strength, and the words wouldn't come.

"More like 80 miles," Derek allowed, not encouraging his companion at all.

"That'll take us like, a _week,_" Stiles pointed out. "We don't have any food, or water and we know zip about the terrain ... unless you're also secretly a survivalist expert?" he added hopefully.

Derek grimaced and shook his head. "Urban, yeah, wilderness... not so much, but I can get along for a couple of days. We can follow the river for water."

"Which will probably take us dozens of miles out of our way, and will be exactly where the crazy killer people will look for us if they lose our trail in the water to begin with. That Kate lady sounds like she knows what she's doing. If she's some kind of big game hunter, we'll be at a total disadvantage out in the wilderness where we don't know what we're doing and she does." Stiles frowned thoughtfully, the wheels in his head starting to spin to life at the challenge before them despite his exhaustion and pain.

"Well, what do _you _suggest then?" Derek inquired tersely, as if well aware of the shortcomings of the plan and not liking to be reminded of them when he didn't see any other options.

"We _act _like we're trying to get away by following the river," Stiles proposed, warming to the plan as he spoke. "We leave a false trail. Go up the river for a ways, leave the water, go on a ways more, then find some place that's rocky or something and wander around in it to confuse the trail. Then, we carefully go back to the water exactly the way we came. While they're busy following that trail and trying to figure out where it picks back up again when it disappears, we slip behind them and go back downstream. We come back here, where they're least likely to expect us to show up again. We grab my jeep and hightail it out of here. We head out cross-country to avoid anybody who might still be watching the road and make for the highway. It'll be rough, but I know my baby can do it. I've taken him cross-country before. The highway should only be around twenty or thirty miles from the station as the crow flies. If we can make the highway, we can lose ourselves in the traffic and ... figure things out from there."

Derek frowned as if turning the idea over in his head and trying to find fault with it. There were plenty of problematic variables, Stiles wouldn't deny that, but it was no less insane than trying to strike out across country on foot and evade skilled hunters for days in the woods. Decidedly less so, in his opinion.

"What if they leave guards at the station?" Derek finally asked.

Stiles rubbed his nose and cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well ... there's a lot of ground to cover, so they're going to want as many people as possible for the hunt. They would probably only leave one or two at the station, at most. You have the shotgun still, so maybe we could get the drop on them? I'm not saying it's a great plan, but it's better odds than out here man, you know it is."

Derek did seem to know. "Okay," he agreed reluctantly. Stiles got the feeling that his hesitation wasn't so much because he was unsure of the plan as it was that he was fighting the instinctive urge to simply put as much distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers.

"Okay," Derek said again, a little more firmly this time. "We'll give it a try."

A scattering of birds started singing in the trees, heralding a dawn that was still unseen but must be slowly approaching. They reached the top of a ridge and Stiles was relieved to see the glitter of moving water down below them. The rushing sounds of the river carried up to them like a promise of sanctuary.

Then another sound came to their ears. The distant sound of barking dogs.

* * *

_**A/N: Well, now we know a little more about the situation, but much more is yet to come... :)**_


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles and Derek scrambled down the steep hill towards the river, slipping and sliding on the loose, rocky terrain. Each jolting step jarred unpleasantly through Stiles and set his teeth on edge, but the distant sound of the dogs and the urgency that Derek's story has inspired in him kept him moving.

They reached riverbank in a near tumble and ran splashing out into the stream, staying to the edges and away from the deeper channel in the center were the current was strongest. The river wasn't huge, but it wasn't narrow either. The water was deep and the current swift. Even at the edges of the waterway it was already up to Stiles' knees. Further out it looked deep enough to support small water craft.

Knowing that it wasn't usually a great idea to drink out of unknown bodies of water and feeling too desperately parched to care, Stiles bent, cupping blissfully cold and refreshing water in his palm. He drank, slurping urgently until he no longer felt like he was going to die of dehydration. Dying of other causes seemed to still be on the table, but there was something to be said for dealing with one problem at a time.

"Upstream," Stiles urged, wiping the water dripping from his chin with the back of his hand and slogging off in that direction when it looked like Derek might start heading the other way. "We need to go upstream." He shivered. His body was hot from exertion and the water was cold.

"Going with the current would be easier, we'd go faster," Derek pointed out as he followed, both of them sloshing their way through the stiff opposition of the water pushing and tugging at their legs. The footing was uneven and prone to sudden changes in depth. There was no steady, gradual incline into deeper water. Instead, the rocky riverbed dipped and rolled in jagged points and jetties. Sometimes the water was at mid-calf, and sometimes it rose up to their waists.

"I know, which is exactly why they'll look downstream first," Stiles pointed out. "...unless they have enough dogs to search both banks in both directions at the same time," he added with a frown. "But either way, we'll want the current with us when we try to slip back, especially if we need to dodge searchers coming the other direction at the same time."

Derek seemed satisfied with this logic and they pressed on, sometimes wading, sometimes outright swimming their way upstream with the distant sound of the hounds howling at their backs. At first the cold water actually felt good on Stiles' sore muscles and stinging scrapes. Then it began to feel too cold as his body temperature dropped and his wet jeans chafed irritatingly at his skin.

The dark water was like black ink, highlighted by constantly moving glitters of white in the moonlight. The night rendered it opaque, their legs disappearing beneath them as if sunk into molasses. They couldn't see the submerged ground they were traversing at all and had to work their way along by feel and a certain amount of blind, foolhardy faith. Trying to move as quickly as possible only increased the difficulty. Thankfully, they were both strong swimmers, because they lost their footing more than once and were soon drenched head to toe. It was a miracle Derek managed to hang onto the shotgun he was carrying, although Stiles wondered how useful it was going to be after the repeated dunking.

In places, the steep banks rose up into cliffs, blotting out the sky and the moon. All that could be seen then was a thin ribbon of stars overhead, distant and remote and illuminating nothing but themselves. Stiles had used the term _pitch black_ before without really understanding what it meant. Now he did. He literally could not see Derek even when he was only a few inches away. He could see nothing. It was like being blind. With the current tugging hungrily at his legs and the ground shifting about beneath his feet, it also was more than a little terrifying. A familiar shortness of breath started to squeeze his chest and he fought it back stubbornly. He'd not had a panic attack in a while, and now was definitely not the time.

He felt something warm brush his chest and then his arm. He realized it was Derek's hand, searching back for him as if seeking to assure himself that his companion was still behind him. Stiles fumbled about until he caught the groping hand in his own, gripping the other man's fingers. Just like that, he felt the invisible fist around his chest loosen a little. _Huh, well that was pretty nifty. _

Suddenly Derek's hand went taut in his, clenching and nearly getting yanked away as the other man lost his footing with a splash and was dragged backwards by the rough, tumbling current. Stiles' grip tightened reflexively, struggling to hold on as the sharp tug dislodged his footing as well. The rough, thundering water tugged at them like a hungry beast.

Stiles slithered several feet across the wet, invisible riverbank until his feet and shins banged suddenly into a submerged bolder. He scrambled to grab onto it with his free arm, bracing his waterlogged sneakers against it for leverage and leaning his body backwards. Straining, he tugged until Derek's back heaved up against his chest. Quickly wrapping his arms around the other man, Stiles shifted them both so that the water was pressing them _into _the bolder instead of away from it. Breathing rapidly and clutching Derek's chest hard, he fought to keep them both upright and anchored. He was unable to see Derek, but he could feel the strong planes of muscle beneath his arms and his fingers twisted in his wet t-shirt for purchase.

After a minute of awkward struggling, Derek managed to get his feet back under him. Stiles let go then, except for his hand. That, Stiles kept hold of, and Derek seemed to have no objection. They didn't speak. They would have needed to shout to be heard above the roar of the water in this canyon and that didn't feel safe. The night also created a kind of damper of its own, as if the darkness and the cold had sapped their voices. Still, they continued to push forward and slowly, eventually, the impenetrable gloom began to lighten.

It happened so gradually that Stiles didn't even recognize the change at first, until suddenly rocks and water started to have form again, like subtle shades on an under-exposed photo. Slowly, the sky lightened until finally daylight dawned in a glory of pinks and oranges above them.

The rising sun helped perk their flagging spirits. It made their path easier to see and significantly less treacherous. It warmed Stiles' chilled body, making the coolness of the water gradually feel refreshing again. Unfortunately, it also made them feel increasingly exposed.

Stiles hadn't realized how comfortably anonymous the otherwise terrifying darkness had made him feel until suddenly it was gone. There was probably some kind of deep meaning in there about how the grass was always greener,_ yadda, yadda, yadda,_ but he wasn't feeling particularly philosophical at the moment, just tired, wet and wishing the river provided better cover.

The intermittent sounds of the dogs remain a constant in the distance behind them. Not so close as to make them panic, but close enough to keep them on edge. Either sound carried very well out here, or there _were_ enough dogs for their pursuers to cover the river in both directions. Either way, the sounds remained reassuringly faint for the present.

Stiles figured - or at least, he _hoped _- that even with the slower pace they'd had to maintain during the pre-dawn part of their journey, it would still take their pursuers a fair amount of time to catch up. With luck, they may have first had to work out his and Derek's initial route out to the bomb shelter and then back to the station before following them to the river. Even if luck was against them, as was more usually the case, and the dogs had picked up the more direct trail straight from the hill behind the station to the river, their pursuers would still have to waste time working their way along both sides of the bank with the dogs in order to not miss picking up their exit trail, while he and Derek could simply forge on as fast as their weary limbs could carry them. The river cut straight and level through the landscape, while the surrounding terrain rolled and dipped dramatically. It would take longer to navigate on foot.

Stiles hoped that was going to be enough of an advantage. He hoped their pursuers didn't have any easy access, immediate access to boats. He also hoped he wasn't going to fall asleep on his feet before they'd made good their escape. He'd never felt quite this tired.

The banks sloped away sharply on either side of the river. In some places they were almost flat, the land about them lying at the same elevation as the water, while in others sheer canyon walls rose about them on either side.

They stayed in the water for at least another hour before finally dragging themselves exhausted and dripping onto the opposite bank. Stiles was achy, sore and tired, but he gave Derek a grin, wiping damp hair out of his eyes as they heaved themselves up out of the water. "Well, this isn't exactly how I thought today would go, but hey, at least I got my bath," he said with wry optimism as they made their way up the riverbank with leaden feet.

Derek grinned at him with a sort of quizzical expression, as if he thought Stiles was kind of insane, but that maybe that wasn't entirely a bad thing.

They laid the false trail Stiles had suggested earlier, knowing they could not stop to rest no matter how much they both wanted to do so. They left as confusing a trail as they could, sometimes splitting up only to come back together again, doubling back on themselves, and generally trying to make it difficult to follow in order to waste as much of their pursuers' time as possible, while at the same time keeping track of it themselves so they would be able to retrace their steps once they were done.

That part was a lot harder it had seemed in theory, but they managed. At different points along their route, they used the slowly drying moisture from their wet clothing combined with dry earth to make a mud they could paint into a distinctive L shape on some visible surface, preferably a rock where it would stand out. On their return journey, they followed the marks like a trail of breadcrumbs, smudging the marks back out as they passed them. If they couldn't get rid of the marks entirely, it would hopefully look like nothing more than the accidental slips and smudges of two muddy, exhausted people running for their lives.

Stiles proved especially keen at coming up with ploys and unique ways to use the terrain to their advantage, but by the time they were done his strength was almost completely spent. Derek had to walk with his arm around Stiles' waist, supporting him on their journey back to the river.

Even with their careful trail marking, it was difficult to navigate the exact same path out as they had taken in. Thankfully, Derek continued to prove exceptionally good at remembering directions and keeping his bearings. The carpet of pine needles, stones and rocky earth beneath them left no impression of their feet to indicate directionality, so it was only their scent trail they had to worry about, or at least that's what they were counting on.

The day was heating up and the cool water of the river was not unwelcome on burning muscles and heat-flushed skin as they slid back into it, even if Stiles was sick of being wet and felt chafed raw by his own sodden clothing. They had successfully laid their trail, but now came the even more difficult part.

_Waiting._

They were going to have to lay low and _wait _for their pursers to catch up and take the false trail. Only once everyone who had come upriver looking for them had _left _the banks and gone off into the woods, out of sight of the river, would it be safe for them to slip back downstream towards the station. Otherwise, the risk of being seen was too high.

They had chosen this part of the river as the place to enact their plan for two reasons. First, because the banks here were gentle enough in grade that it would make sense to their hunters that they'd thought this a good, far away enough place to finally exit the water. Second, and most importantly, because a little further upstream the river took a bend that created swampy area along the outer curve where the water was shallow, relatively calm, and choked with an obscuring tangle of debris. Along with the natural undergrowth there were fallen trees and large rocks that looked as if they had at some point been brought down in a mud-slide from the steep banks above. It was a good place to hide.

Derek and Stiles pushed their way into the tangle of living greenery and dead branches that was to act as their blind. They dare not leave the water again, but unlike most of the starkly visible river, here the tangled natural cover would shield them from easy sight. From their hiding place they could just see the spot where they'd laid their trail. They would know when it was discovered.

Now, they just had to wait. Wait for the pursuers they'd tried so hard to lose to actually catch up with them. Wait until they were deliberately within the reach of danger in order to have a chance of escaping it. _Just _wait. Right.

To be honest, Stiles couldn't bring himself to care very much about those things as he sank down off his feet with a soft groan. He felt like he could happily sit and wait for the end of the world right now, if only he didn't have to take another step. He was so tired he actually felt _dizzy. _He settled into a cross-legged position in the shallow, sun-warmed water. It came up to just below his waist, the tops of his knees rising above it like little islands. The rocky riverbed was muddy here and he felt himself settle into it slightly, but he didn't care. He wasn't _moving _for the first time in _hours _and it was _marvelous. _

Derek settled beside him, carefully stowing the shotgun in the crook of a dead, side-ways tree branch that would keep it out of the water. Stiles knew Derek had to be exhausted too, but he was clearly good at concealing his feelings and seemed to be animated by a kind of tense, nervous energy that wouldn't let him rest. Stiles could see from the other man's movements that he was uncomfortable with having to wait for their pursuers to come to them and potentially squandering the lead they'd gained. Whatever he may be feeling, however, Derek said nothing and simply stuck with the course of action they'd agreed on earlier.

Stiles liked to believe that was because Derek trusted his plan, although maybe it was at least partially also because the last part of their little trek had made it pretty clear Stiles wasn't going to be able to go any further without a chance to rest and recoup. Honestly, Stiles thought he was doing pretty good, all things considered. He was not a wimp, he told himself, anyone would look a little lacking next to Derek's annoyingly Olympian levels of fitness and stamina. Hey, the guy had been alone with nothing to do for months except probably read, watch baseball and work out, so it made sense.

Stiles glanced thoughtfully at where Derek had stashed the shotgun, his earlier question coming back to him. "We're going to have to swim for it on our way back downstream. Staying in the deeper water and moving with the current will be the quickest and quietest way to go. So ... the gun probably won't be much good after that, huh?" he asked. It was a snag he hadn't considered earlier, although they could still use it as a bluff if they had to, he supposed.

Derek shook his head. "No, actually it should be fine. It's not ideal, of course, but getting wet, even being submerged for a while won't hurt this type of gun as long as we don't try to fire it while the barrel is still full of water. The ammo should actually be all right too ... " He paused thoughtfully as if considering. "But I've only got two extra cartridges, so I'd rather be safe than sorry."

Derek pulled two red, already wet, spare cartridges out of his back pocket and balanced them carefully next to the rifle. Then he pulled out a small quart-sized Ziploc baggy that contained what looked like a few handfuls of trail mix.

Stiles understood at once that Derek intended to use the watertight bag to store the cartridges as an extra precaution, but raised his eyebrows at the contents of Derek's pockets.

Derek caught the look and returned it dryly. "Hey, you carry condoms, I carry ammo."

"And together we make a smashing team," Stiles said, flashing him a grin. "You're not going to just dump that trail mix, are you?" he added, eyeing the bag as his stomach suddenly started telling him how hungry he was.

Derek popped the bag open and poured the salty mixture of nuts, seeds and dried fruit bits into Stiles' cupped palms. "Why does it seem like I'm always feeding you?" he pondered aloud, lips twitching slightly.

"Because you're an awesome person and I'm a growing boy who needs to eat," Stiles returned with a grin, forcing himself to eat a couple nuts at a time and to not scarf the whole lot in one go.

Derek chose not to comment. He carefully cleaned out the inside of the bag, then placed the cartridges inside and sealed it up, making them extra water tight. When he looked up again, Stiles was holding half the trail mix out towards him on an open palm. Derek looked puzzled and shook his head. "I gave it to you."

Stiles smiled crookedly, gnawing on a raisin. "Yeah, and that's sweet, but you gotta keep your strength up too, big guy. We've got a lot of ground to cover yet. Come on _- yum, yum, in the tum_," he said, repeating the old childhood rhyme in a sing-song tone.

A small, real smile flittered across Derek's face for the first time since this ordeal began. "You're crazy," he murmured, but his tone was fond as he took the offered food, such as it was.

They made it last as long as possible, but that wasn't very long. When it was gone, Stiles licked every last bit of salt off his palms, stomach rumbling. He was still ravenous but there wasn't anything he could do about that right now.

"Thanks and all, but if this is your idea of a _morning after_ breakfast, we really need to work on your game," he teased Derek.

"Sorry, I'll just go whip up an omelet, shall I?" Derek retorted dryly.

Stiles sighed ruefully. "Probably not a good idea. Even if we could find wild eggs out here somewhere, can't really afford a fire," he said with faux pragmatism. "But _next _time, dude, _next _time you are totally making me breakfast, with, like, _all _the trimmings."

Derek looked at Stiles a little strangely, perhaps not having expected Stiles to be talking like there might actually be a _next time _at this point. He said nothing, however, and they lapsed into silence.

Stiles shifted, trying not to feel the heaviness of his eyelids or the gnawing in his stomach as they waited ... and got chewed by mosquitoes and probably ticks, leaches, and every other _awful_ thing that reminded Stiles why he hated the outdoors and it should never have been invented.

Rubbing his arms against the either real or imagined sensation of being bitten and sampled as if he were an insect buffet, he turned to Derek for distraction. There was still no hint of their pursuers but he kept his voice low anyway, letting the sound of the river and the loud droning of insects cover their voices from all but one another.

"Derek ... is it okay if I call you Derek, now?" he interrupted himself as the thought came to him. "I mean, I kinda assume secrecy is out the window now that we're being pursued through the wilderness by your evil nemeses?"

Derek eyed him. He didn't say anything, but gave a slow nod.

"Okay, great, Derek." Stiles nodded. "So, what's your last name, Derek? Looks like we've got some time here ... maybe you could elaborate a little on this _'criminal organization' _we're running from? I've got a right to know what I might get killed over," he pushed a little harder when Derek looked hesitant. "Not that, you know, anyone is _going _to get killed, because we totally aren't," he added firmly.

Derek ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. Stiles got the impression that it wasn't that Derek didn't _want _to tell him, so much as that this was a secret he'd gotten too used to keeping. He'd spent so much time burying and protecting these truths that it was hard to say aloud the words he'd trained himself never to speak.

"Hale," Derek finally said softly. His voice was so quiet Stiles had to strain to hear him above the ambient sounds of nature about them. "My name's Derek Hale. My parents were Talia and William Hale. My sisters were Laura and Cora Hale." He spoke the names with a certain reverence, as if he _needed_ to say them, these names held so long only in his heart. As if it was something of a relief to bear witness to their lives and their memories aloud, to share them with at least one other human soul. To make sure they were never completely forgotten.

Stiles understood that feeling. He listened silently.

"I was around seven or eight when it all started. My parents were partners in their own little law firm. It was nothing big or fancy, but then Craylon happened. Craylon was this big, local manufacturing company that had apparently been cutting corners for years and exposing their workers to some harmful chemicals as a result. I'm not really sure how my parents got involved, but somehow they ended up representing the workers, pro-bono. Most people considered it a hopeless, career-ending case and the company threw the big guns at them, of course. There was a lot of ugly stuff I only kind of remember," Derek continued. His fingers plucked at a leaf stuck to his jeans, but his gaze was distant.

"There was a lot of politics and graft involved, I think. Craylon had the governor and several other important figures in their pocket. There was one city councilman on our side, though. He became my parents' strongest ally and helped them eventually expose not only Craylon, but also the politicians who were getting kickbacks from them. They won the case and the resulting public acclaim ended up taking all of them to new heights. My parents' firm started getting major league clients and their good friend the city councilman became the next governor.

"For a few years, things were good. My little sister Cora was born, we moved into a bigger house, I joined little league... You don't stop to think at that age, whether you're happy or not, but looking back, I think we were." Derek shrugged, recounting these things as one might a fairytale or a distant memory that could no longer be connected with reality. "Then everything changed. When I was around ten, my mother was on the board of this national non-profit organization called _Dream Big. _They grants to struggling K - 12 schools in low income areas and things like that, or at least that's _allegedly _what they did.

"My parents were all about the need for people in positions of power to behave ethically and responsibly, so when my mother noticed discrepancies in some of Dream Big's records and bookkeeping, she wasn't content to let it slide as a simple accounting error. She had to check it out. To dig deeper. In the end, it turned out that Dream Big was actually a giant, money laundering operation that did barely a fraction of what it claimed. It was one of many fronts being used by an extremist organization that called itself _ALPHA_," Derek hooked air quotes around the name with his tone.

Stiles drew in a startled breath. "Whoa, wait," he interrupted. "You mean ALPHA, as in that cultish eco-terrorist group with unusually low morals and an unusually high body count that blew up that deep sea oil drilling station and a bunch of other shit, then gave themselves a black eye by using drug and arms deals to finance their allegedly principle based operations? The _Accensa populus libertatem in ... an... hoc ... _uh ... stuff I don't remember but basically_ we really wanted the initials of our motto to spell something, _people run by that creepy guy _"Big Duke"_ Deucalion? _That _ALPHA?"

Derek's raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's them. They were active for a long time previously outside the states, but the oil rig disaster was what got them national attention. It turned out to be the opening salvo of all their state-side attacks. They were a pretty big deal at the time, although they've been off the radar for at least ten years now," he added, frowning slightly as he studied Stiles, who seemed to know an awful lot about it for someone who could not have been more than a child the last time anyone mentioned that name.

Stiles simply nodded. "Wow, yeah, haven't thought about that in _ages_. They were all over the news for like, two summers when I was growing up. My best friend's dad did some kind of analysis or something about it. His folks were already separated, but for some reason his dad needed stuff from my dad so he was like, in and out for a while. I remember Dad followed the news pretty closely and that was actually great because it was a little after Mom died and he really needed to take interest in something. Like, _really_. Scott and I had this whole casebook of clippings we kept about it ... or, well, I did, anyway. It wasn't that long after 9/11 so the word _terrorist _was kind of like _boogeyman, _you know?" Stiles shook his head momentarily lost in the unexpected swarm of memories he'd not touched in quite a long time.

"I had this crazy theory I was trying to prove, that they weren't really the _blow random shit up for a cause _kind of terrorists and there was a pattern in the destruction," he admitted with a rueful, self-deprecating smile. "Scott and I used to play all the time like we were some kind of modern day Untouchables, getting chased and hunting down the bad guys..." Stiles stopped rambling abruptly, blanching as he realized how his whimsical memories might seem to someone who had lived the very harsh reality of a situation that had all been fun and games to him.

"Um, sorry, I didn't mean ... I mean, obviously it was a lot more than a game for you and I didn't ... I talk too much," he apologized with a sigh.

Derek's gaze had shifted off to the distance, but he appeared more lost in his own memories than offended. He shook his head and shrugged. "It's all right, it's true; it was a big deal and it all seemed kind of thrilling at first. I was..." he paused as if struggling with the words, a bitter tone in his voice. "I was _proud _and _excited _that my parents were involved in prosecuting those people, like it was all some kind of big adventure. Laura was a little older than me. I think she knew better."

Something dark flittered behind Derek's eyes, a mixture of pain and regret that made him look so sad it made Stiles' chest ache. Impulsively, Stiles leaned over and hugged him.

Derek stiffened. He didn't reciprocate, but he didn't pull away either. Stiles released him and settled back before it had a chance to get awkward.

"Well, they did do a lot of good, right? I mean, ALPHA was basically destroyed by the ensuing investigation," he said quietly, knowing that didn't replace what Derek had lost, but wanting to try to find something encouraging about it all.

"Sure," Derek murmured, voice still bitter and eyes dark. "The Feds got Deucalion and dismantled ALPHA, and my parents were part of that ... but that wasn't the full story. That was the part the news knew about. That was the part that _worked._" His gaze shifted back to Stiles, piercing in its intensity.

"The rest of it was one giant clusterfuck. See, the thing is, you were right, Stiles. The attacks that made them infamous, they _weren't _random. They weren't all Deucalion's work_, _either. The core of ALPHA _was_ kind of a cult, with Deucalion at the head, but he wasn't in it alone. He had a silent partner, and that partner used and betrayed him. Don't get me wrong, Big Duke was bad news. He became a real fanatic after the industrial incident that took his eyesight and he got a lot of people killed pursuing his twisted idea of the perfect world, but he was on some level a man with a cause, or at least an obsession. The drugs and the arms dealing, that wasn't him.

"Like most groups of their ilk, ALPHA was made up of multiple splinter cells carrying out their missions independently. The idea was to make it harder to take down the whole if one branch was caught, but that also made it easy to subvert the organization from the inside. Duke didn't learn just _how_ subverted portions of his organization had become, or how much his choice of targets had been manipulated for purposes other than his own, until it was too late. Over time, ALPHA itself had become little more than a front, a tool disguised as a terrorist threat, a weapon of greed disguised under ideology. It was hard to trace or prove because it was so well hidden, but many of their targets were such that they did a lot more than further some out-there planet protecting agenda. The impact they had and the timing of them manipulated the stock market, plunged certain companies into bankruptcy, elevated others to soaring new heights and significantly contributed to making or breaking many political careers."

Stiles didn't even register the mosquitoes snacking on his neck and arms anymore as he stared at Derek with rapt attention, his interest deeply captured by these revelations. "Oh my God, I knew there was something off about it all!" he said excitedly, unable to help himself. "I _knew _it!"

"You weren't the only one who thought so," Derek said wryly. "The Feds my parents were working with suspected the same thing, but they couldn't prove it. That's what they needed my parents for. Because, you see, it wasn't an _accident _that my mother found those records that started the unraveling of Deucalion's whole power structure. Big Duke had run his course of usefulness to his silent partner and his deepening, unpredictable fanaticism was now becoming more of a liability than an asset. It was time for him to go.

"This man, this _silent partner_... he knew my mother. He got her onto the board of Dream Big in the first place. He _knew_ she'd notice the problems and dig until it all came out. What he _didn't_ count on was how smart she was. He didn't count on her and my father unraveling the threads so far that they came all the way back to _him_. Maybe he thought they'd never suspect him; he was their _friend _after all. He was the only one who had stood by them against Craylon, who seemed to share their goals and ideals and remained deeply involved with them ever since. They shared holidays and social events. Their children _knew _each other." Derek's voice was black with hatred.

Stiles' eyes were wide, his mind quickly slotting the pieces together as they were revealed. "No way, the fucker! He was that city councilman guy?! That totally makes sense. You said he became governor after that, right? _Dude_, he totally used that case to kick start his career. Probably manipulated the whole thing like he manipulated Deucalion and Palpatine-ed the shit out of everybody."

Whether or not Derek got Stiles' Star Wars reference, he seemed understand the gist just fine. He nodded grimly. "Exactly. He was running for Senate by this time and he thought to use my parents to take care of the loose cannon Deucalion had become with the added bonus of making Big Duke useful one more time in the process. Being involved in taking down such a newsworthy bunch of "terrorists" gave another huge jolt to his career _and_ it gave him an opportunity to get rid of my parents.

"From what I gather, they had apparently started to become an annoyingly over-observant hindrance to him. The Feds were keeping my mother's involvement under wraps when Deucalion was arrested, but ALPHA came after us anyway and I have no doubt that he is the one who leaked our identities to them. Deucalion probably thought his supposed _ally _was still trying to help him out as much as he could without blowing his own cover. I don't know why Duke never turned on him once he was in custody, so I can only assume the bastard continued his charade all the way along, even as he played both ends against the middle, hoping they would eliminate one another. Getting my parents killed or shuttled off into witness protection suited him just fine.

"My parents figured it out though. They saw through him to what he really was. They started working with the feds to get the proof needed to take him down." Derek sighed, his eyes having gone distant again, and strangely weary.

"It took a long time. We went into witness protection when I was around 11. It was only supposed to be short term, a precaution against the attempts made by ALPHA until the trial was over and the dust had settled. But the case just dragged on and on. Witnesses disappeared, evidence was _mishandled_, it was a mess. All the while, my parents were secretly working with the couple of agents who were trying to form a case against someone who was, by now, a US Senator and a dangerously influential man. We had to be moved often. Twice, maybe even three times a year it was a new town, a new name, a new history to try to remember. My parents finally got what they were after, but the Senator caught on to what they were doing.

"That very night, Deucalion _commits suicide_ in his cell and the lead agent working with my parents dies in a _car accident_. The resulting fire conveniently destroys the recordings he was carrying, the evidence my parents had worked so hard to get. We would have been crossed off the same night, but my dad was on the phone with the agent when he was run off the road. My parents didn't take any chances. We ran and just missed the assassins who would no doubt have been thought of merely as an ALPHA hit squad coming after us in retribution for Big Duke's death.

"The next day a crap ton of new evidence _conveniently _came to light that made the rest of the case against the different remaining ALPHA members being prosecuted a slam dunk. No reason to stall anymore now that Duke was gone, along with whatever truths he knew. The case wrapped up, ALPHA allegedly fell apart and the news and everyone else moved on to other matters. Open and shut. No reason to look further. A small team of Feds stayed quietly involved with my parents, but other than their statements as witnesses there was no proof of anything and the powers that be seemed increasingly of the opinion that this whole operation had been nothing but a wild goose chase by a couple of misguided civilians and one overzealous and now dead agent. The investigation wasn't dropped, but it was no longer a high profile, high priority case.

"The cycle of witness protection and endless moves continued as they tried again to make their case against the Senator, but something always kept going wrong. He was too well connected, too well protected. Only Deucalion's radical faction of ALPHA had truly been dismantled. The rest of the underground organization merely changed shape and form, serving whatever new purposes he needed them to serve. It seemed like there was no corner he couldn't reach, no person he couldn't bribe, blackmail or kill as needed to protect himself." Derek's voice had gone flat and emotionless as he related the story, as if he were sliding into some kind of fugue.

"One by one, the agents involved in the case managed to die, were reassigned or became visibly, increasingly disinclined to take action. When I was 15, our house burned down. I wasn't there. I'd snuck out that night." He snorted softly. "This girl, Paige, had invited me to a concert. I didn't even care about the music, but someone had _included _me, you know? I wanted to go, but my parents were all edgy because of some vaguely unsettling thing that had happened earlier and so they said no, we needed to stick together, just in case. I thought it was just an excuse and I knew so much better. They were _always_ jumping at shadows and it was ruining my life," he said with a bitingly self-derogatory tone.

"I was angry by then, unhappy with the life we had and I blamed them for it. So I snuck out and went anyway. Laura realized what I'd done and came looking for me. She wanted to bring me back before our parents realized I was gone, I think, but it took her a while to find me. When she eventually did, she pretty much dragged me back home, but by the time we got there, we didn't have a home anymore. It was already burning. To this day, I don't know what happened. I don't know if they died because they were distracted trying to figure out what happened to Laura and me, because they couldn't find us when they needed to run. I don't know if us being there might have made any difference or if we'd just be dead too. I just know I came back to the sound of my baby sister screaming, and I couldn't get to her. I tried. The flames were too thick. The firemen showed up and pulled me out. They tried, but it was too late for them to do anything, the house was already coming down. Cora was only six ... " He shook his head, the emotionless tone he'd been using cracking painfully around the edges. His palms balled into fists in his lap, knuckles white and nails digging into his palms. His breath was starting to come quick and fast.

Stiles bit his lower lip, gut twisting in sympathy. He wanted to say something, but for once nothing came to mind. Instead he just reached over and took one of Derek's hands in his own, fingers curling gently around the clenched fist. He could only imagine how badly these memories had to hurt. He knew what it was to lose someone you loved and to feel like you had failed them when they needed you. That you just hadn't been in the right place at the right time and hadn't been able to save them from the monsters. The monsters that took Derek's family had been real. The monsters that took his mother had been in her head, but the pain of the loss was something to which he could relate.

Derek tensed and glanced up at Stiles quickly, as if only now remembering that the other man was there and that he wasn't walking down this well trodden road of memory and regret alone. His fist released uncertainly and Stiles gently entwined their fingers before Derek could pull away.

Their gazes locked and Derek stared at him for several long moments without speaking. Stiles couldn't begin to guess what was going through the other man's mind. Maybe it was stupid, given the fact that Derek was clearly much more physically capable than he was, but the older man's eyes seemed so vulnerable and full of pain, Stiles felt an unexpectedly fierce and urgent desire to protect him.

Derek's breathing had evened back out. He shuddered slightly as he drew in a long, deliberate breath, seeming to shake off whatever had momentarily taken hold of him.

"The blame landed on some former ALPHA nut who was shot while attempting to escape arrest. The few agents who had still been working on the case against the Senator with our parents moved on. It was just Laura and I after that. Laura was legal by then, so she could be my guardian. The Marshals moved us to a new location, gave us new identities one more time and then pretty much forgot about us. Even if anyone questioned who was really responsible for the fire, the fact was our parents had been the threat and whatever case might have been had died with them. No one expected anyone to keep coming after us. No one except Laura. Growing up like we had ... we couldn't relax. _She_, couldn't relax. Laura had already graduated and I refused to go back to school. After a few failed attempts to make me, she gave up and we just ... drifted, together. We weren't exactly running, but it felt like it. We knew we weren't safe, no matter what WP seemed to think. Then I ... there was ..." Derek trailed off, seeming curiously unwilling to continue, given how freely he'd related everything else thus far. He looked away, his fingers unconsciously tightening around Stiles'.

"Two years after the fire, they hunted us down again. I guess it didn't matter to them, that we couldn't testify. Just the fact that we _knew _was too much of a liability. Laura was killed, and I barely escaped. I didn't even bother attempting to get in touch with the Marshals or Feds again after that. I've been on my own since then," he finished up, clearly summarizing his way past a part of the story he did not wish to dig into too deeply.

Stiles knew something of the final picture had been left out of the account, but Derek had just bared a huge portion of his soul to him and he was not about to press for more if the other man was unwilling. It was quite enough to take in as it was.

"How long ago was that?" Stiles asked instead, giving Derek something else, something safer to talk about. So many things made more sense to him now. He understood Derek's paranoia and reserve, his inexperience and awkwardness around people. The man had spent his whole life running, of course he saw potential danger in every shadow and hadn't had time to form normal human relationships and attachments. The thought made Stiles ache down to his bones. This was all so wrong. This didn't happen to real life people... and yet, apparently, it did.

"Four years," Derek said with a shrug. His expression had smoothed out to carefully neutral again. His thumb played absently against the curve of Stiles' knuckles. "They almost got me once, a few months after Laura, but since then I've learned to keep a low profile. I move around, pass as an illegal, work under the table jobs in the most out of the way places I can find... it seemed to be working, until now. I _still _can't figure out how they found me. I mean, why _now _after more than three years_?_ The only thing truly out of the ordinary that's happened is ... " he looked up at Stiles and then stopped, shaking his head and looking back out across the water as if forcing himself not to go there. He squeezed Stiles' hand once and then released it.

Stiles drew his arm back slowly, letting it rest back in his lap as he considered what Derek had just said. "Is _me_, huh?" he said quietly, forcing a lightness he didn't entirely feel. "Derek, I swear, I don't know how I could possibly have led them to you when I had no clue about any of this," he promised, the levity in his tone only just covering a thread of anxiousness underneath. Lately, he had a bad track record of being believed or having his word mean anything.

"Besides, like ... I've been with you for days now, and we've both been totally cut off from the outside world, so ... yeah." He shrugged, trying to move on quickly past the idea. His head hurt and his eyes felt scratchy. He was beyond exhausted, but trying hard to ignore his body's clamoring protests for rest. "Wouldn't it make more sense for it to have something to do with those kids that messed up the station or maybe those police officers who came to take the report?"

Derek frowned. "I thought about that," he admitted. "Those officers know old man Winnemucca, the station owner. They've been around the station before, during the busy season, and I've seen them around town. They've never known me as anything but Miguel and never showed any interest. I don't know why that would have suddenly changed, now. Plus, if they were after the bounty, why not just jam me up over my supposed illegal status and take me in when they were out here the other day? There was nothing to stop them. As for those kids..." he shook his head. "It's not the first time something like that has happened. It was dark and they didn't get any kind of good look at me. I just don't see how any of them could have made the connection or even that there was a connection to make. Even as some kind of ruse to try and get a look at me, it doesn't make sense, because they _didn't _get a look at me. It would make much more sense to come in posing as a customer or a lost tourist or something ..." Derek stopped abruptly as if belatedly realizing where he'd accidentally circled himself back around to.

Stiles just grinned ruefully. "Yeah, I get it. Can't really blame you for being suspicious of everybody at this point. So, I guess this is why you _really _go prowling around at night with a shotgun, huh?" He asked, stifling a yawn. "And why you gave me the riot act when I accidentally found your stuff." Only now, did Stiles realize just how damning Derek's little box of keepsakes and family mementos would be to anyone trying to ascertain whether the well-built, angular featured young man was in fact the floppy haired teen and soft featured child of years past.

Derek nodded and rubbed the back of his neck, giving Stiles a slightly sheepish look. "Yeah ... sorry about that. Your appearance was already kind of suspicious. When I found you like that, I thought you might be a bounty hunter or something, looking for proof of who I was. That's what happened the last time I was nearly caught."

Stiles grinned around another yawn. "Yeah, because you've got a _bounty on your head_," he said the words as if he'd always wanted to try them out in a real life situation. "That's actually kind of cool in a weird way. I've never known anyone with honest-to-God bounty hunters after them," he remarked, rubbing his eyes and face vigorously an effort to shake off the sensation of sleepiness that he had no time or desire to entertain just yet.

Derek squinted at him, possibly still attempting to acclimate himself to Stiles' occasional habit of saying whatever inappropriate thing he happened to be thinking. "Yeah, well. It's not that exciting, take it from me. It basically just means you can never really trust anybody, because even if they didn't start out intending to sell you out, they might decide to later. That's how I learned about the bounty in the first place. I met this other guy at a hostel and we ended up hitchhiking through most of Iowa together. He seemed harmless. Smoked a lot of pot, always had his nose in his phone, obsessed with low sense "quick" money making schemes, but we got along. Only at some point he comes across something online about the bounty, I guess, and I'd been too free with certain things, so he put two and two together and decided to try to cache in."

Stiles made a disgusted sound but Derek just shrugged. "It was my own fault, I got too comfortable. You think I would have learned not to trust people long before that, considering it's how I got my sister killed," he added acerbically, then abruptly looked away as if having said more than he intended.

Stiles' fingers played against the soggy seam running down the side of his jeans. Derek's history seemed comprised of a churning sea of nothing but betrayal, pain and self recrimination that he wasn't sure how to navigate. His mind was regrettably slow and fogged by exhaustion and he felt like he just wasn't up to this task as well as he should have been. "So ... what convinced you that I wasn't a bad guy and you shouldn't just let me die in the desert?" he asked by way of attempting to diffuse the sudden tension in the air. "Because, um, for the record I'm really glad you didn't," he added with a weary, but impish grin.

Derek didn't seem to have the heart to smile back, but his lips twitched a little. "I scouted the area. I followed you. I watched you. No one came for you when you were in trouble, and you didn't get in touch with anyone."

"So nearly dying of sunstroke meant I was innocent, I _see_," Stiles teased.

"Well, or at least that you weren't working with anyone in the immediate area," Derek allowed.

"Oh, _thanks. _Thanks so much for the vote of confidence." Stiles rolled his eyes, although he supposed if he were in Derek's shoes he'd be just as paranoid. "If that's how you felt why'd you come for me at all?"

Derek shrugged, studying his hands in his lap. "Honestly, I almost didn't," he admitted. His voice was quiet, but it wasn't an apology. He looked up at Stiles, holding him with those intense green eyes as if he needed Stiles to know this, needed him to understand the kind of person Derek felt he was. "If you had been one of them, I would have let you die. But I couldn't be sure. I suppose it would have been safer to err on the side of caution, but ..." Derek shifted, looking anywhere but at Stiles. "I knew you wouldn't make it and I couldn't take the chance that you _might _be innocent," he admitted.

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, raising his eyebrows and grinning at the somber words. "Wow, okay, so, _really _glad you went with your gut and not your head on that one, then."

"So am I," Derek murmured, almost too quietly to hear. Stiles _did _hear it, however, and his grin widened.

"So... those people back at the station, Kate and Yates and their goons, they're, what, rival bounty hunters or something, you think?" he asked, shifting his focus back to the present and wondering if there was any way to use the bad blood between their pursuers to their advantage. He cupped some water in his hands and splashed it on his face. His eyelids felt too heavy and it was damn distracting. He alternately tensed and relaxed his muscles, struggling to stay awake.

Derek shook his head, then paused thoughtfully. "Well, I'm not sure, entirely. I have no idea who Yates is, from what we heard bounty hunter is a real possibility for him. Kate's in this for a different reason, though. She happens to be the good Senator's loving daughter," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "The fact that she's out here personally is a bad sign about how seriously they want me. I can't imagine she'd be getting her hands dirty otherwise." His eyes and tone darkened. "Although, I suppose I don't really know. Last time I saw her, she was putting an arrow through my sister's heart like she was nothing but an animal to be hunted down. So maybe she likes the hands-on approach. Maybe she's acquired a taste for blood and it's her thing. Who can tell?"

"Oh, so, like, the whole family is just a bunch of lovely psycho killers then? How convenient, must make the holidays a total blast. What do they do, sit around and give each other severed fingers and horse heads for kicks?" Stiles said disgustedly, feeling sickened all over again and channeling that into sarcasm as the only outlet he had. "Wow, just ... wow. I mean, you really weren't kidding when you said this was complicated," Stiles observed, thinking this may be the first time someone's _long story _had actually _been _a long story and not just one they hadn't wanted to talk about. He was almost reeling from the information dump.

He frowned thoughtfully, feeling like his head was full of stupid, sleepy cotton and wishing he had a clearer mind for this. "Okay, so... I get that you can't testify to any of the stuff your parents knew and you just found out about second hand, 'cuz, like, hearsay and all that, but if you _saw _this woman kill your sister ... can't you do anything with that?"

Derek snorted like it was a stupid question, which maybe it would have been if Stiles had been more awake. "You're kidding me, right? I would barely survive long enough to press charges, much less testify if I surfaced, and let's just say I did, that I was willing to risk it, because I _would_ if I thought it would do any good. So let's say I do... where's my proof? I don't know what they did with Laura's body. All I can say is what I saw. Kate's father could probably buy her _ten _iron clad alibis. Gerard is a fucking US Senator and Kate's a respected private security contractor with security clearance whose teams have been employed to run overseas ops by the fucking _government_. Who am I? I'm almost literally nobody. I have no work history, no driver's license, social security card, birth certificate... I haven't paid taxes in my entire life and haven't had a scrap of anything legal under my real name since I was eleven years old. I can't even prove I'm _me_ if they wanted to contest it. You tell me, who is going to be believed?"

Stiles grimaced, because unfortunately Derek was completely right. He knew all about the injustice of supposedly just systems when someone else seemed more worthy than you did. It wasn't even a risk worth taking. It was difficult to believe the utter lack of viable options. He felt sure he had to be overlooking something, but it was so hard to think when all he really wanted to do was sleep for a year.

He rubbed his scratchy eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, blinking slowly. Everything was starting to catch up with him and while the sheer interest of Derek's story and leftover adrenaline had kept his exhaustion at bay for a time, his worn out body was starting to give out on him against his will. He was in pain, he'd been riding a highly stressful emotional rollercoaster, he'd been exerting himself strenuously for hours and had not had more than a few hours sleep the night before. Stiles felt like he was going to pass out where he sat. He could face-plant in the water and drown and he wouldn't even care.

Something was tickling at the back of his mind, like maybe the combination of _Gerard_ and _Senator_ and _Kate _and _private security _should mean something to him, but he was too leaden with exhaustion to solve any more puzzles right now, his mind too close to shutting down for the niggling spark to ignite or gain any traction.

"Holy crap, dude, we are so screwed," he mumbled, scrubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes vigorously and trying in vain to clear the encroaching cobwebs out of his head. "This is all so screwed up."

"You're telling me," Derek said bitterly. "But look, they don't know who you are," he tried to encourage, perhaps taking Stiles' frustrated exhaustion for something else that it wasn't. "If the plan works, we'll get out of this without them ever seeing or identifying you. Soon as we're out of here, you can split and you'll be okay," he promised earnestly.

Stiles made a confused and consternated face, blinking owlishly at Derek as if he'd said something either stupid or insulting. "_Dude_, I'm not just going to cut and run and leave you with these goons on your tail. This isn't right, it sucks, we have to figure out how to fix this."

Derek shook his head incredulously. "There _is _no _fixing_ this, Stiles. There's not even any decent revenge to be had. I tried that. I watched them for a while; I thought about all the different possible ways I could kill them ... you don't want to _know _how much time I spent thinking about it. But it's no good. They're well aware of all the enemies they have and are too well protected for even a suicide attack. I'm not afraid to die, but I want it to count. I refuse to give them the last of our blood for nothing. I'll live just to spite them if that's the only thing I can do. So I'll keep going; keep hiding and making them chase me for as long as I can, but you don't want to be any part of this, trust me, Stiles. The only sane thing you can do is to run away from me as far and as fast as you can, first chance you get and pretend we never met."

"Mm," Stiles murmured thoughtfully, as if considering the advice. "Nope, too late for that," he concluded. "I don't do no-win scenarios. When the rules suck this much, we need new rules. We'll find a way to cheat the kobayashi maru, I just gotta think... but I'm kind of tired. Like, _really_ tired... need to sleep a little first. Then think. Plan... stuff..." Stiles' words slurred and jumbled somewhat incoherently as sleep reached for him. His head nodded and jerked spasmodically as he fought the failing battle against his fatigue. He was literally falling asleep sitting up, his body twitching and slumping in turns.

Derek shifted around in the shallow water, maneuvering until he was behind Stiles. He wrapped his arms around the teen's waist, pulling Stiles' back against his chest and allowing the boy's weight to settle into him. Stiles' head lolled back to rest on his shoulder, as if too heavy to support its own weight a moment longer than necessary.

"Mm gd this ss nice..." Stiles mumbled contentedly, his eyes already shut and his body gratefully relaxing. "So comfy. Comfy Derek pillow. Mmm ... gonna keep you..."

The boy seemed hardly aware of what he was saying anymore and Derek tried not to pay attention to the words as he settled Stiles' slackening body more securely against him, supporting Stiles so he could sleep without fear of slipping into the water. Stiles murmured a few more things didn't even sound like words any longer, but the sounds quickly trailed off into a soft, even snoring.

Derek was tired too, but there was no possible way he could sleep, not now, not when he knew Kate was here. Not when those fucking bastards were at this moment closing in on their position. No, he was too keyed up to allow himself rest. Besides, one of them had to stay awake or they risked losing everything, and clearly that could not be Stiles. The young man was completely spent, which was in no small part Derek's fault.

Derek blinked weary eyes. Stiles' body was warm against his chest, his head a pleasant weight upon his shoulder. He'd not told anyone his story before, not all together like this. If he were honest, he probably hadn't even strung that many words together all at one time in _years_. It was a strange sensation. He wasn't used to talking to anyone so much and his throat ached for many reasons. The telling left him feeling emotionally drained, as if he'd wrung some part of himself out like a used sponge. Yet, much like a sponge drained of dirty dish water, it also left him just a little bit lighter. He couldn't really understand the contradiction, but then, there was a lot about being around Stiles that he didn't understand.

He had been alone for so long. It was weird and strangely nice to have someone beside him like this, even if it was also terrifying. Last time he ran with someone he was running with Laura, and in the end he'd watched her die. Derek didn't think he could watch any more people die.

With any luck, he wouldn't have to. Stiles was clearly not thinking straight right now. It was crazy for him to act like he was going to try and stick this out. He had no reason to get involved and every reason in the world to not. He'd think better of it when he wasn't so worn out. When it came down to it and the shit hit the fan, he'd do the sensible thing and split, Derek was sure.

That would be for the best. It was the only way to save his life. Derek tried to comfort himself with that truth, even as the pain of a loss which he had no right to feel cut its way slowly through his insides.

* * *

**A/N: ****Ooof... so much explanation to try to get out in this chapter. I'm exhausted. Next chapter we'll get back to the action... and angst. Sooooo much impending angst... :)**


	11. Chapter 11

Stiles swatted sluggishly at the arms insistently shaking him. He would have mumbled a protest, but a large hand was clamped over his mouth, discouraging that idea. It was a testament to how very tired he was that the human gag didn't even alarm him. He just wanted the shaking to stop so he could rollover and go back to sleep.

"Stiles," the whispered word in his ear was soft, but urgent.

_Miguel ... _Stiles' sluggish mind supplied. _Miguel wanted something. Couldn't he wait a few more minutes? Just a little longer ..._

A sharp pinch made him start. It came again a second later, strong fingers pinching the skin on his forearm sharply. He tried to flail away, but strong arms held him tight to the body behind him.

_Ow! What the hell?! Miguel was pinching him, the jerk! No ... wait, not Miguel. Derek. Derek was pinching him..._

Stiles eyes flew open as that one thought kicked off a flood of others, his mind finally surfacing up from slumber enough to remember where he was and what was happening. Forcing heavy, sleep fogged eyes open, Stiles blinked at the brightness around him, trying to make sense of the blur of colors and shapes. It took a few long moments for his sluggish brain to process the optical input.

He was still sitting in the water with Derek, resting against the other man's body. Derek was holding him tightly, one hand around his chest, one over his mouth, undoubtedly so he wouldn't make any accidental sounds upon waking. Even sleepy as he was, Stiles couldn't help thinking Derek felt very _nice _against his back.

"Stiles, they're here," Derek's barely there whisper brushed against his ear again, the prickle of the other man's stubble scraping the side of his jaw and neck.

_That _sent a zing of adrenaline through Stiles' body that helped him shake off the lingering lethargy of his recent slumber and drew him more fully alert. Drawing in deep breaths to clear his head, Stiles sat a little straighter. He tried to twist his mouth free but Derek was still holding him too tightly, perhaps not yet sure whether he was awake enough to be aware of their situation.

Stiles lightly bit the inside of Derek's palm. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to tell him to back off without having to make a sound.

Derek did, quickly, shaking his hand more out of surprise than pain. "You bit me!" he hissed, voice still as low as the hum of a dragon fly's wings.

Stiles twisted to regard him with a flat look. "Only because you've apparently got a _thing _for gagging me. Which, under the right circumstances, is actually pretty hot for some reason," he added parenthetically, his voice also a bare whisper. "But let's try to keep it to the bedroom, okay?"

Derek blinked, looking at him like the unexpected shift in topics had left him completely unable to compute. He licked his lips and then gave his head a little shake, like maybe his mind had just gone somewhere _very _unhelpful. "They're _here_," he repeated with a frown, enunciating very carefully, like maybe Stiles hadn't heard or had forgotten the part where they were currently in mortal danger.

Twisting back around to peer out through the thick, leafy tangle behind which they hid, Stiles strained to see the opposite bank. He could just make out the dark shape of a figure moving through the trees higher up the hill before it disappeared from sight, following the trail they had set. From somewhere nearby, the purposeful howl of a hunting dog following a trail sent a shiver up his spine.

Stiles swallowed, heart speeding up a bit as he looked back over his shoulder towards Derek. "How many of them? Did they all take the trail?" He felt suddenly frustrated with himself that he hadn't roused sooner and had missed so much. They had to be sure that everyone nearby was well into the woods before they could make a move.

"Three men, one woman, two dogs," Derek whispered back, pressing a little closer against Stiles' back as he leaned forward to peer around him. "They were split into two one dog, two person teams, shadowing each other on either side of the river. The team on this side forded across to join up with the one on that side once they picked up the trail. They all took the bait."

Stiles nodded, glad Derek had been paying attention. "Kate was with them?" he asked, feeling worried. He wasn't sure how well their ruse would hold up to someone who knew enough about tracking to have been able to estimate their gender and relative heights from a few footprints. If they figured out the deception too quickly, he and Derek were sunk.

Derek shook his head, his mouth forming a tight, grim line at the mention of the woman's name. "No, some other woman. I didn't recognize her. Yates is with them, though and I _think _one of the other men might have been one of his people from the station." Derek sounded highly uncertain of this, which was no surprise, given the distance and the darkness through which they had observed those proceedings. Yates was probably wearing that cowboy hat still, which made him at least a little distinctive.

"Mm," Stiles nodded, turning this information over in his head while feeling a trifle relieved. "Good. That's good. They probably split up into four groups, two going down river and two going up. Yates got the short stick, Kate expected us to go with the current. I'm guessing more of her people showed up, maybe with the dogs or something," he surmised, following his stream of consciousness aloud, but keeping his voice low. "Given how tense things were back at the station, it wouldn't surprise me if they tried to load the search teams up with even numbers of Kate and Yates' people, if possible. It felt like there wasn't a lot of trust going on there."

He shifted in the water, trying to ease out the stiffness in his joints and wincing at the sudden rush of pins and needles in his very flat feeling butt. He carefully moved to his knees, trying to disturb the water as little as possible. The sound of the dog was getting farther away, but he wasn't taking any unnecessary chances.

"With any luck, Yates won't want to let them call the other group from downstream right away," he continued, rubbing wet hands down his face. He was becoming painfully aware of his waterlogged legs and feet. His toes must be positive prunes by now, and they ached inside his drenched socks and sneakers. "He'll want to try to get us himself first. Even if Kate's people insist on calling her..." Stiles squinted up at the sky, trying and failing to judge what time it was by the position of the sun. "By now, they gotta be so far downstream that it will take them hours to get up here."

"We'll have to make it back to the station before they are able to backtrack that far, otherwise they'll see us from the banks and shoot us like fish in a barrel," Derek pointed out grimly.

Stiles gave his arm a pat. "That's the spirit, Derek. I can always count on you to look on the bright side," he said cheerfully.

Derek glared, giving him the eyebrows of doom look and it was all Stiles could do not to laugh.

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles inched forward a little on his knees, peering cautiously out from behind their sheltering canopy. Adrenaline was starting to pump through his veins, the jittery butterflies in his stomach making him feel both hyper alert and a little ill at the same time. Now was when they found out whether the plan was going to work or whether he'd gotten them killed. _It would work. Of course it would work. Totally. Oh God, please let this work._

The dogs' baying was faint now. If their pursuers were all following the trail, this would work. If they'd left somebody to keep an eye on the river for any reason... well, Stiles was just hoping they hadn't. He knew it was time to go, but it was harder to make himself move then he'd anticipated. It was like that moment on the very top of a rock climbing wall when you had to kick off to start rappelling back down and all your instincts told you that letting go of the wall and pushing backwards into space was very much not a good idea, but your brain told you the ropes and the harness would hold you and you just had to let go and trust. Only here, there were no safety lines, and no way of knowing what lay on the other side of the plunge.

"Okay, well, here goes nothing," Stiles said, giving Derek a slightly shaky grin over his shoulder before he carefully and quietly eased himself out of their hiding place.

Once he'd forced himself to take that most difficult first step, the rest came easier. With Derek close on his heels, Stiles slipped out into the stream, staying low in the water in order to splash as little as possible. Unlike on their journey up stream, they now made straight out towards the center of the river where the water was the deepest. Stiles felt his feet leave the bottom as the riverbed dropped away and the current took him. Staying low and paddling just enough to keep his head barely above water, he let the strong current carry him along past the point where they had laid their false trail.

He felt like he was holding his breath the whole time, and not just because of the water that kept splashing in his face. This was the most dangerous point of the endeavor, the moment when it was most likely that they could be spotted and everything would go to hell. It was hard not to struggle more with the water, especially since it kept pushing him under, but he tried to move as little as possible. Every little splash he and Derek made felt glaringly loud and jarring.

Stiles tried to quietly gulp air before the river forced his head under again, holding him in the fierce undercurrent until his lungs burned and he finally had to claw his way back to the surface again or risk suffocation. He came up gasping, but was relieved to see that he was already past the place where their pursuers had disappeared and a good ways downstream besides. The water around him was churning and flecked with white as it rushed along, the current much more formidable here in the center of the river than it had been on the edges they'd clung to all last night. It made staying afloat difficult, but it made their progress wonderfully rapid. In just a few minutes, they'd cleared the large, curving bend in the river and were fully out of sight of the place where Yates and his companions hunted for them.

Stiles felt himself finally relax a little. They weren't out of the woods yet _ha, ha, _but it should be fairly smooth sailing from here. The current yanked him under, making him swallow water in surprise when he bumped none-too-gently against a submerged rock that seemed to come out of nowhere. Sputtering, Stiles clawed to the surface and started paddling in earnest, twisting and just managing to avoid being thrown into another bank of rocks on the opposite side of the river as the water rushed and tumbled him along.

_Okay, so maybe **smooth **wasn't **quite** the right word for it._

The next time Stiles' head came up, he looked around for Derek. He found him a couple dozen yards further downstream, now ahead of Stiles. His dark head disappeared beneath the churning water for a minute, only to resurface several yards later. The current was giving him a run for his money. Burdened by trying to keep hold of the shotgun and not let it bang into things, he seemed to be having a harder time keeping from getting spun around, but he appeared to be holding his own well _enough_. At least, Stiles would have to hope so, because there wasn't much he was able to do right now but try to avoid either drowning or being dashed against the frequent jetties of rock.

The violence of the current may be rough on their stiff, sore and already waterlogged bodies, but it was a definite boon to their need for speed. They were moving with almost dizzying swiftness compared to the long slog of their upstream journey. At this rate, Stiles estimated they should almost certainly make it back to the station before the downstream pursuers could hope to cover any similar distance on foot.

The one unforeseen hitch in Stiles' plan, which he only realized after they'd been in the water for a while, was that he had no idea _where_ exactly they would need to exit to get back to the station. They'd run into the river in the dark. Stiles had been so focused on getting away that he hadn't taken any stock of their surroundings, which would doubtless all look different in daylight anyway. _Crap._

"Derek!" he hissed, spitting water and struggling to get close enough to converse with the other man without having to shout. It took him several minutes to maneuver himself through the water in an effort to approach and then he ended up getting a little _too _close. The current slammed his body into Derek's unexpectedly, sending them both spinning for a minute in a tangle of arms and legs and white water.

Derek came up choking and Stiles just grabbed the shotgun before it was ripped away by the current. Losing the use of his hands immediately sent him under. A second later Derek dragged him back up by the scruff of his shirt and pulled the shotgun away, letting Stiles get his hands working to keep him afloat once more. Derek was kicking powerfully with his legs and seemed to have gotten the one-handed swimming thing down pretty well.

"Sorry!" Stiles spluttered as they swam alongside one another again, close, but not _too _close. "Derek, do you know where the station is? I mean, like, where we went into the water?"

Derek looked at him as if he were daft. "Of course," he half called, half coughed back. "There's a big, double-headed rock formation just before it. I picked a landmark when we went in. Didn't you?"

If Stiles hadn't been wet through and chilled from the long submersion, he probably would have flushed. "Of course!" he retorted with a little too much indignation. "Just making sure you did."

Derek saw right through him. His lips quirked. "Uh-huh."

"Oh look," Stiles said brightly. "Rock!" he twisted to avoid the incoming jetty and managed to end up a good deal further back from Derek again. It was probably just the burble of the river, but he could swear he heard the faint sound of the bastard laughing at him.

Derek spotted the aforementioned rock formation first when they finally reached it. Exiting the current proved to be a lot harder than entering it, and they overshot by quite a bit before they were finally able to make it to the bank and drag themselves out of the water.

Stiles felt like he weighed a million pounds without the added buoyancy of the water. It was like being in space and then coming back under the dominion of gravity. Or he guessed that's what it would feel like, anyway, since he'd never actually been in space.

"Walking in wet shoes is not fun," Stiles informed Derek as they made their way through the trees and up a steep hill that Stiles thought he might vaguely recognize. "It is, in fact, very, very _un-_fun, topped only by the barrel of non-laughs that is walking in wet socks." His feet hurt. The constant, prolonged wetness made them feel raw. "AND it all gets about ten times worse still when it's this hot. Hot and wet. Yuck. You think the hot would dry out the wet, but I just feel like I'm steaming. Steamed Stiles. Great, now I sound like some kind of clam dish."

Derek did not bother answering, but Stiles didn't really require a response. He just felt the world needed to know how much the wet shoes and socks combo sucked.

"God I'm glad you're one of those people with a GPS in their heads," he remarked a few minutes later as Derek led them into a narrow twisting canyon and then out the other side. Stiles was totally serious about that. His plan had been brilliant and all even if he did say so himself, which he did, but he would have been _utterly _lost out here a hundred times over without Derek's innate sense of direction and navigation skills. He'd said he wasn't a survival expert, but Stiles was pretty sure he was selling himself short, at least as far as the dead reckoning part went.

"I'm just observant," Derek corrected. "Maybe you'd keep better track of your surroundings if you weren't always talking," he added, the hint of wryness in his tone keeping the words from sounding truly critical.

Stiles shrugged. "Oh, I doubt it. I'm way too easily distracted. Actually, talking kind of helps keep me on point. You do get that I haven't had my meds since ... okay, so I guess it was actually only yesterday, but it _feels _a lot longer ago. Besides, I don't _need _to, I've got my own personal Bear Grylls ," he said, patting Derek's shoulder.

"Your own what?" Derek asked, squinting in confusion.

"Not what, _who _and never mind. I'm guessing reality television hasn't been very high on your priority list. No great loss there, although, you know, if we make it out of this whole mess, I'm starting to think we should totally do Amazing Race or something, I mean, we make a pretty great team."

Stiles amused himself by silently considering what other competition shows he and Derek could possibly be a good fit for as they made the arduous trek back to the station. The musings were pointless, but they kept him distracted, kept him from focusing on his weariness and apprehension and how much _everything _hurt.

When they finally reached their goal, Stiles decided their pursuers really were serious about covering their bases, because they had in fact left a guard there to watch the station and their cars. Only one man, however. They could deal with one guy. Stiles had a plan.

That was how he ended up staggering out of the woods closest to the station, smeared with dirt and lurching about like a lost extra from the Walking Dead. Gurgling and groaning hideously, he clutched his chest, reaching wordlessly for the man as if desperately seeking help before he collapsed on the ground and proceeded to go into a shuddering series of convulsions that might have done an exorcist movie proud.

Naturally, the lone guard's attention was fully captured. Weapon drawn, he hurried closer and then stood there uncertainly, watching Stiles convulse. He shouted for Stiles to be still and demanded to know what was wrong in wary tones.

Stiles didn't respond, but he did go still. He gave one last shuddering convulsion before going limp, sprawled on the ground like a corpse. He did not respond to questions or threats and the man edged warily closer to check on him, gun trained cautiously on his still frame. The man was not about to be taken in by someone playing dead and watched him alertly for any sign of movement or hint that this was a trick.

Fortunately, however, he was _so_ focused on Stiles that he never saw the second man who had come down on the opposite side of the station, using the building to hide his approach. One minute the guard was nudging Stiles' limp form with his foot, the next he was being jerked backwards and thrown to the earth. Derek clocked the man sharply with the butt of the rifle on his way down.

The man's finger, already tense on the trigger of his weapon, squeezed automatically in reaction to the blow and the gun went off as he fell. Derek had, fortunately, foreseen that possibility when he noticed how warily the man had been holding the piece. He couldn't keep the twitchy man from firing, but dragging him backwards before striking had at least ensured that the accidental discharge went into the ground, and not into Stiles. The gunshot was painfully loud in the still air and it set both Stiles and Derek's nerves on edge.

The man on the ground was dazed, but still conscious, so Derek hit him again, twice. Finally, he fell still and stayed that way, only the rise and fall of his chest indicating that he still lived.

Stiles scrambled up quickly, leaning over the unconscious man and going through his pockets as Derek retrieved some lengths of flexible wire with which to bind him and an old oil rag to use as a gag.

While Derek lashed the man's legs together with efficient speed, Stiles relieved the unfortunate fellow of his wallet and cell phone. He pried the back off the cell, pulled out the battery and placed both pieces in one of his damp pockets, the wallet disappearing into another.

Derek, now busily engaged in gagging the man, shot Stiles a questioning look.

"Might be useful later to see his ID and contacts and stuff, but we don't want them able to track his phone to us," Stiles explained simply. "I want to know who this guy is. You can find out a lot from a guy's phone and the contents of his wallet." If there was any cash in the wallet, that would be nice too, but mostly he was after intel on the people hunting them. Any and all information they could get would be helpful for planning later on, once they got past the _not getting caught or dying _phase of this affair.

Derek tucked the man's gun into the back of his jeans, as if the thought that might be useful, too.

"Disable their cars, I'll get our stuff," Stiles told Derek, waving at the other vehicles as he ran towards the shop. That gunshot had made him antsy and extra anxious to get out of here as quickly as possible. Sounds like that carried. Kate's group of downstream searchers had to be on their way upstream by now and who knew what other forces or guards they might have positioned nearby? The faster they were away, the happier he'd be.

Stiles' pillow was still in the corner of the store where he'd left it. He snatched it up and tucked it under one arm, balling up the blanket he'd been using and shoving that into the crook of his elbow, too.

The main part of the station was relatively untouched, but Derek's room had been trashed. Books had been pulled off the shelves and shaken out, then discarded on the floor. Clothing was strewn everywhere. The bed was laying on its side and the ransackers had found his shoebox of mementos hidden in the wall. It was lying open on its side, the contents spilled out around it. Loose photos were strewn across the scarred floor where they had apparently been dropped after serving the purpose of confirming the identity of their owner.

The careless treatment made Stiles unaccountably angry for some reason. He righted the box and gathered up the scattered contents, carefully placing them all back inside. He figured these were things Derek wouldn't want to lose. Closing the box, he tucked it under his other arm and grabbed up as much of Derek's loose clothing as he could carry, topping the load off with the blanket from overturned bed, because blankets were always useful, right?

Hurrying outside, trailing a few random socks and something that looked suspiciously like a pair of briefs, Stiles awkwardly yanked open the back door of his jeep and shoved everything inside. His jeeps' regrettably not very large trunk area was already full of a loose jumble of his own worldly possessions, but there was still plenty of room in the back seat.

Stiles shut the door after depositing his armload of goods and looked around quickly. The man they'd taken out was already gone from sight, probably locked in either the bathrooms or the tool shed. Derek was bending over the open hood of one of the bad guys' dusty black SUVS, busily sabotaging its engine.

Judging that he had a couple minutes more until Derek was finished, Stiles made a quick dash into the diner. This building had obviously also been searched, leaving everything in a messy disarray. An upended cardboard box once filled with napkins partially blocked the doorway. Plucking it up, Stiles shook out the remaining napkins and set to work hurriedly filling it with as much of the canned food as he reach. If they had to lay low somewhere, a little food wouldn't go amiss. At the last moment, he remembered to look around for a can opener too. He'd made _that _mistake before and could say definitively that rocks and pencils made lousy can opener replacements.

Outside, Derek finished disabling the other cars and snatched up his tool box. It seemed a useful thing to take with them, so he carried it around to the rear of Stiles' jeep. He pulled open the back and found himself immediately stymied by the fluffy mass of junk that spilled out to greet him. An large, overflowing plastic laundry hamper took up most of the space, accompanied by stacks of notebooks, a backpack and several ripped grocery bags, all of which were doing a lousy job of containing their contents.

A mix of t-shirts, boxers and briefs tangled up with a framed photo slid off the top of the pile like the beginnings of a mini-avalanche. Derek caught them, but several brightly colored highlighters got past him and managed to make good their escape, falling to the ground and rolling under the car. Swearing, Derek quickly pushed back against the growing cascade of other barley identifiable items that were now trying to join the mass exodus. He shoved and knocked things into the back seat until the pile stabilized once more. Frowning, he tried to figure out where he could put his tool box. Setting it on top of the mass was out of the question, it would only slide right off and make an even bigger mess. He judged that there was enough room for the small metal chest to fit in between the wall and the big white laundry basket if everything else wasn't so haphazardly placed. He didn't want to have to rearrange anything, but if he were careful he could probably slide it in on top of the notebooks and underneath what looked like a wad of unfolded bed sheets.

Attempting to shift everything up enough that he could push the box in underneath without causing another avalanche, Derek cautiously balanced what turned out to be an unwieldy snarl of dirty clothes, power cords, action figures and enough multi-color highlighters to supply a small school. As he squeezed the toolbox in, he scraped his hand on the jagged end of a spiral bound notebook, one of almost a dozen stacked in the bottom of the trunk.

The top notebook bulged, uneven bits of non-notebook paper protruding from under the cover and between the pages. Behind the notebooks, Derek could just make out two loosely wrapped ceramic mugs emblazoned with witty sayings. One of the bits of paper sticking out of the notebook looked like a newspaper clipping and the partial text caught Derek's attention. _"... the missing man on the ..." _was all he could see. He was reaching to tease the article out a little further when a surprisingly serious looking set of night vision goggles, tangled up with what appeared to be a tactical vest separated from the mass above and nearly fell out on him. He caught them automatically and quickly re-settled the curious items in a more secure position. _What the hell?_

Derek's brows furrowed. None of this seemed very much like road trip material. These were not the kind of things someone took on a vacation. It looked as if Stiles had a significant portion of his life packed up back here. Either he was living out of his car, working out of his car, or he had recently pulled up stakes from somewhere.

Finally getting the toolbox wedged in with one last push before anything else could fall on him, Derek caught sight of something else. Something small, sleek and black that was tucked down by the wall of the trunk, neatly hidden beneath all the daunting and seemingly innocuous clutter.

Derek pulled the object out, and everything inside him started running cold.

It was a cell phone. It was _Stiles' _cell phone, he was sure, because what else would it be doing in his car? It must be Stiles' phone. The phone Stiles insisted he didn't have. An assertion Derek had believed, and upon which he'd based a lot of assumptions. With no way to contact the outside world, Stiles couldn't possibly have communicated with anyone while he was here, right? He couldn't _possibly _have told anyone about Derek, or the damning collection of photos he'd dug out of a secret hiding place behind his bed. It wasn't possible, so Derek should think it was just coincidence that _Kate fucking Argent_ showed up at his door only a couple of days later. It wasn't possible, so Derek should continue discounting all those little warning bells in his head that had kept him alive this long, because he didn't _want _to think that way and Stiles _couldn't _have been the one that gave him away. And yet... and _yet. _

Struggling for calm, Derek took another look at the night vision goggles. They looked cheaply made, but effective. Easing out and flipping open the cover of the notebook that had caught his attention before, he found it full of newspaper clippings, printouts and photographs. There were several layers of them, separated between notebook pages like pressed flowers. Derek only skimmed the headlines of the articles, but each set seemed to focus on a different missing persons case. Some passages were underlined or highlighted and the pages of the notebook appeared filled with related notes, including detailed lists of the missing person's habits and particulars. There were printouts from several of the missing people's social media pages and what looked to be copies of case related photographs, judging by the various official looking watermarks and date stamps in the corners.

Derek let the book fall shut and settle back atop the mess of bed sheets as he fought against the illness rising in his stomach and burning the back of his throat. What was he supposed to make of all this? Stiles obviously had more than a passing interest in people who were hard to find. Did that include people who didn't _want_ to be found? Like him? Was that why Stiles was carrying around such a substantial wad of fresh bills? Because he'd just been paid for a completed job, or perhaps given a down payment on a new one? Was this what Stiles actually did for a living?

He didn't know. When it came right down to it, he knew exactly _nothing _about Stiles' life or his past. He realized now that every time he'd prodded in that direction, Stiles had always evaded and changed the subject.

Derek couldn't breathe. Stiles' phone still clenched in his fist, he leaned both hands against the edge of the laundry hamper and let his head hang as he struggled for oxygen. _No. NO. Stiles **hadn't** come here hunting him. He hadn't been the one who gave him away. It didn't make sense,_ Derek told himself. There was another explanation. There had to be.

He wanted to believe that. Wanted it so much it hurt. He wanted to believe that he was making too much out of this and Stiles wouldn't betray him, but experience had taught him otherwise far too many times. He was exhausted, sleep-deprived and running on adrenaline and fumes. His emotions were wildly out of whack and the raw fist squeezing his chest refused to let go. All attempts at denial and rationalization smacked strongly of self-delusion and he felt something in his chest start to crumble. He was an idiot. He had been down this road so many times before he should have it memorized by now. This wasn't the first time he'd felt sure, _so very sure, _about how harmless or well intentioned someone was and every single time, it had cost him. Every. Single. Time.

_"Come on, you _know _me, Derek. We practically grew up together. Let me help you. You and Laura shouldn't have to spend your life like this and I ... I can't take living like this anymore. You have no idea what it's like in my house. We have to do something. Let me try to make this right ..." _Kate had seemed sincere, too. She'd even backed it up with actions, just like Stiles had. She'd let him go when she could have held him. She'd warned him of danger and helped him 'escape'. They'd plotted and planned together for nearly two months. She'd seemed so utterly sincere. She'd treated him like a friend ... right up until she finally got him to lead her to his sister. Then she stabbed him in the back. Only _he _wasn't the one who got stabbed.

Derek's breath rattled in his chest, the pain of suspicion morphing into something darker and uglier as it triggered the horrible flood of memories that were never that far away.

_A red stain spreading in the moonlight. The agony and fear in Laura's eyes. Dark blood bubbling from her lips. The satisfied smile twisting Kate's face, like she'd bagged a prize stag. The knowing expression in her eyes when she looked at Derek that seemed to say "I couldn't have done it without you."_

Stiles exited the diner and hurried back to the car with the heavy box of food stuffs held against his stomach. He shoved it into the foot well behind the driver's seat and then noticed Derek standing behind the car by the open trunk. He grimaced, knowing what a terrible mess it was and aware that he'd been tossing his dirty shorts back there for over a week with little regard for where they landed.

"Oh, hey, uh, there's not really any room back there," he warned, hurrying around behind the car. Shoving back a couple of wayward items that were sticking out, he shut the trunk quickly, embarrassment hastening his movements and making them abrupt.

Derek read it as something else. "Oh? Something you don't want me to see in there?" he asked darkly.

Stiles was already moving back around the car, missing the shift in Derek's tone in his rush to be gone. "Just my underwear, but I guess, too late for that, huh? Okay, come on big guy, let's rock and roll..."

Stiles was reaching for the driver's door when Derek stopped him. Grabbing Stiles by the shirt, he pushed him up against the side of the car.

Stiles squeaked in protest and surprise as he found himself suddenly pressed face-first into the warm metal and canvas exterior of his vehicle. He craned his neck, trying to see the other man over his shoulder. "Hey! Uh... um... Derek? Derek, what are you doing?! As much as I might like you to push me up against a car in a different context, now isn't really the time. What the hell, dude?!"

"Who are you, really?" Derek's voice was tense. His hand, jammed between Stiles' shoulder blades, kept the boy in place as he patted Stiles' pockets with his other hand until he found Stiles' wallet and pulled it out. He couldn't ignore this anymore. He had to know. He had to find answers, one way or another. He could not afford to go another step with Stiles until he knew whether the young man was running with him for safety, or leading him into a trap.

Stiles squirmed, bucking against Derek's grip. "Derek, what the hell?!" he repeated. "What do you mean? Now is _not _the time to get all existential on me, man. What are you doing?!"

"You can learn a lot from a man's wallet and his phone, right?" Derek threw Stiles' earlier words back at him as he released him. "I want to be wrong," he said quietly, although his voice remained hard. "God, I want to be wrong."

Stiles spun around to find Derek tearing quickly through his wallet, scanning the now measly amount of very wet dollars inside and looking over his ID and credit cards as if he could somehow find the truth of the cosmos hidden within.

Starting to get angry and thoroughly confused, Stiles gestured wildly around them. "Derek, have you gone postal? What has gotten into you? You want my wallet, fine, you can freaking have it, but we _gotta go_! Have a mental breakdown later, okay?"

Derek's face was set and closed off. There was an increasing light of anger simmering in his eyes and the hard set of his brows. "Who the _hell _is Prrrezem-eye-slaw?!" he demanded, holding up Stiles' driver's license and MasterCard while badly mangling the name displayed on both. "What is that, Russian? Eastern European?" Derek threw the cards at him.

Stiles instinctively scrambled to catch them, feeling utterly lost. He knew what Derek was attempting to pronounce without having to glance down at the bits of plastic emblazoned with his unfortunately legal moniker. He'd heard it mangled a thousand ways. If it weren't that his mother had given him the name, he would have been at the courthouse on his 18th birthday waiting to change it.

"It's _Przemysław_, you douche, _shem-eh-swav,_" he corrected in mounting frustration, over-enunciating each syllable. He gripped the cards tightly in his fist. "And that's _me_. Is this really _important _right now?!"

"You said your name was _Stiles,_" Derek accused.

Stiles was totally fed up with this. "Yeah, well, wouldn't you? Nobody calls me Przemysław! Most people, like you, can't even pronounce it_, _and hey, who are you to talk anyway, _Miguel_?"

Derek pulled out another card and froze. He stared at the blue and red bit of plastic as if it might physically bite him, the rest of the wallet slipping from numb fingers and falling to the ground.

Stiles picked up the damp billfold, tucking his cards back in and staring at Derek with frustrated incomprehension and worry. He didn't understand what was going on and couldn't begin to figure out what on earth the other man could have found in his wallet that would freak him out so badly. Derek was actually _shaking. _

"Derek? Dude? What...?"

Derek dropped his hand to his side, gripping the card in his fist as if he'd like to crush it. The plastic edges dug into his flesh so hard they actually cut him, a trickle of crimson slipping down between his fingers.

Stiles' eyes went wide. "Derek!" he cried in alarm, reaching for him, trying to make him stop.

Derek angrily snatched his arm away. Throwing the card on the ground with snarl, he grabbed the front of Stiles' shirt, slamming him violently back against the car again.

Stiles' back impacted hard, the breath rushing out of him in a startled yelp.

"You fucking little _liar,_" Derek seethed, almost too shaken to speak. There were tears burning his eyes. His voice was hoarse, trembling with rage and unspeakable pain. "I should... I should..." he shook his head and punched the side of the jeep next to Stiles, livid and clearly only _just_ restraining himself from hitting Stiles instead.

Stiles cringed and flinched, having thought that fist was meant for him. He shrunk back against the sun-heated body of his jeep as far as he could, totally freaked out now. "Derek...!" he tried, voice shaking, but Derek didn't give him time for questions or protests.

"I _trusted _you," Derek accused, sounding as if everything inside of him was cracking and breaking apart. He was crying, actually, crying. Tears streaming unabashedly down his face and putting a heartbreaking twist on the truly frightening rage contorting his features.

"I'm such a fucking _idiot_! You think I'd learn, right? Because Kate was so convincing too, right? Oh, she wasn't like the rest of her family, _nooo, _she thought it was all awful and wanted to _help _us, and I fell for it and Laura _died. _And now you, with your stupid lame excuses and your stupid smiles and your... your stupid _stupidness_! I knew something wasn't right. I _knew _it, but you... _goddamn_ you!" He was choking, breath coming raggedly and much too fast.

"You already had what you wanted, you knew it was me." Derek shook his head, an utterly lost expression flitting behind his stormy eyes. "You didn't have to..." he swallowed convulsively. "Why did you make me..." he couldn't finish the question. He could barely speak around all the hurt and betrayal choking him. Stiles hadn't _needed_ to seduce him. He hadn't _needed_ to ... to make Derek start _falling _for him. _Were you laughing at me, the whole time?_

Stiles shook his head desperately. He was starting to grasp the nature of Derek's anger, but he couldn't begin to understand where all this was coming from. Derek had gone off on him once before, for reasons he now understood, but what could _possibly_ have happened in the last five minutes to have so completely set the other man against him again _now_, after everything they'd just been through together?

"Derek, I don't understand! Back up a couple paces okay? What do you think I did?" Stiles tried to reason, unable to defend himself when he didn't fully comprehend the charges.

"What do I think you did?" Derek practically hissed the words through his teeth. "You really want to play that game?" He shook his head as if disgusted. "I don't know, _Stiles. _How about you tell me? Maybe start with the part where you're some kind of fucking bounty hunter wannabe? I have to be honest, you seem kind of soft for that line of work," Derek ground the boy's body back harder against the car with his own, pressing into his flesh. "Was this your first time going from pure research to actual field work? Was the money just too good to pass up? Is that why you were incautious enough for Yates' people to pick up on your little venture and try to cash in themselves?"

"I - wha - what?!" Stiles shook his head, even more lost now. "I'm not a bounty hunter!" he protested incredulously, squirming under the press of Derek's body which, given the circumstances, should probably not be evoking in him the reaction that it did. "In what _universe _does that even make sense, Derek? If I was working for those people, why would I be running _away _from them with you? I could have just shouted for them last night when we were on the hill, if I was on their side!" He gestured emphatically, arms flailing in agitation.

"Except I had a gun and could have killed you before they reached us," Derek pointed out, unmoved. "Besides, maybe you had just as much reason as Yates to not want Kate to get me herself. That wouldn't do at all if you're in with her _competition_. I guess maybe Yates was right about Kate having problems at home, huh? You want to be in on the new power structure, Stiles? Help nudge her out of favor?" He shook his head. "Let me tell you something, you shouldn't be trusting _anyone _in that family. They will use you and then feed you to the wolves, trust me. You're already dead and you just don't know it yet."

Stiles didn't even know what to say. Obviously, Derek's words must make sense to _him_, but Stiles couldn't find any handholds on the slippery slope of the other man's paranoia. He felt like he was looking at everything from underwater and couldn't bring any of this into focus. He blinked owlishly at the older man, suddenly feeling exhausted, stupid and incredibly frustrated. It hurt that Derek could believe these things of him. It hurt that he was apparently so easy to mistrust. What was it about him that made people assume the worst? Why was he _always _guilty until proven innocent?

"God, I'm so stupid," Derek spit, his fist twisting in Stiles' shirt. "I should have known you thought too quick and knew too much. Of _course _you didn't want to head into the back country with me. You aren't strong enough to take me on by yourself, or carry me if I were incapacitated. You needed to get me to walk willingly into a situation you could control. Get me in the car so you could ride off with me and turn me in yourself, right?"

Stiles shook his head violently. "No! Derek ... no! I'm not working for them!" he protested, but Derek wasn't listening.

"Did you know they were coming last night?" There was something dark and ugly in Derek's anguished, angry eyes now. "Your contacts tip you off that Kate was on the move and so you had to try to keep me away, is that it? You needed to distract me so I wouldn't come back too soon; keep me in the bomb shelter, any way you could? You gonna try to get more money for having to fuck with me, or do you just _like _screwing people over in every definition of the word?" This was his own fault. It always was. Derek released Stiles with a shove, stumbling several paces back and shaking his head. _Stupid, stupid fool..._

He should have realized that if something seemed too good to be true, it _was. _Stiles had fit into the empty spot inside him too neatly, jumped into his battles and stuck by his side too easily. People didn't do things that. There was no way someone like Stiles would give a damn about someone like him without a motive. He should have seen that from the start, but he'd been so desperate to believe that he had blinded himself. He'd bought into the fantasy without even realizing it and now the shattering of that illusion hurt so badly he quite literally couldn't think straight around the raw, visceral pain of the lacerations that it caused inside his already much too scarred heart.

Stiles staggered under the flow of cutting accusations, floored by the level of hatred being directed at him. Derek's angry, derisive words sliced him to the bone and it was hard to even draw breath around the ache of it. He felt like he'd been sucker punched. He understood Derek's paranoia, he really did, but _this?! _What had he done to deserve this kind of treatment, other than spend all day slogging through _hell_ trying to help this man?

"You're fucking nuts, Derek," he shot back, voice trembling slightly as he tried to control himself. He tried to think rationally around all the hurt flowing through his overwrought emotions, because God knew one of them should. "I have _nothing _to do with those people. Clearly, you don't want to believe me, but here's a news flash: we don't have time for this shit. I don't know if you've got PTSD and you're having a mental breakdown or what, but if you are quite done calling me a _traitorous whore_, thank you very much, maybe you can get in the fucking car so we can get out of here and I can save your douchey, ungrateful, suspicious ass like I've been doing all day! Standing around here yelling at each other is a GREAT way to get killed, don't you think?!"

"I'm not going _anywhere _with you." Derek pulled Stiles' cell phone out of the pocket he'd shoved it into when he'd taken the boy's wallet and threw it at him.

Stiles fumbled, catching the flying object automatically. An expression of bewildered incomprehension and shock slackened his face when he realized what it was. "Wha...? Where did you get my phone?" He turned it over in his hands, trying to understand. For a moment he thought maybe it was just the same brand and color, but no, it _had_ to be his. He recognized it, down to the familiar dent in the lower right corner of the frame from when he'd dropped it while giving Lydia an impromptu Skype tour of the student commons area. This made no sense. How did Derek have the phone he'd lost some sixty or seventy miles away from here?

"Don't give me that, you had it the whole time." Derek shook his head. "I should have shot you when I first saw you."

Stiles' fist clenched hard around the phone. He had had enough. He'd tried to be the reasonable one. He'd tried to hold it together and not react to Derek's irrational behavior in kind, but he was so hurt, angry and torn by now that he was literally struggling to breathe. He wasn't going to get all sappy about what had happened between them, because okay, fine, it was just sex and to think there might have been anything more there would clearly just be too unforgivably stupid of him, wouldn't it? But damn it all, they had been through a ton of crap together in the past 24 hours, didn't that mean _anything_? He had risked his _ass_ for this guy. He was willing to help Derek run, to face a bunch of freaking armed goons with him, for God's sake! He'd not done a single solitary thing to betray him, but Derek was accusing him anyway. Derek assumed he was guilty. Just like _everyone _did, _every fucking time_.

It didn't matter that he was innocent. It didn't matter that he was in the right and had been trying to do the right things, or that circumstances could be something other than they first appeared. No. Nobody cared about that. _Nobody._ Not the strangers online who got off on judging and mocking him without knowing the first thing about what had actually happened, nor the board of stuffy officials and bureaucrats who saw him as nothing but a lying, cheating screw-up not worth their time or consideration. No, they thought he was guilty so that was it. They could destroy all his plans, slap a destructive label on him and throw him out on his ass just like that. Just like Derek.

"You know what? Fuck you. FUCK YOU!" Stiles said hoarsely. He blinked, vision blurry with tears he hadn't realized he was crying. _Crap, how long had that been going on?_ He blinked harder, but it didn't help. He shook his head. He was shaking and he couldn't stop. He dropped his stupid phone and almost just kicked it out of sheer frustration, but ended up bending down to pick it up instead. He retrieved the card Derek had thrown to the ground at his feet at the same time. It was an automatic motion, driven by a need to do something with his hands. He didn't care about the phone or the card. He didn't care about anything anymore. His chest was exploding with heat and caving inward with desolate darkness at the same time. His lungs were heaving but he wasn't getting any air and spots were playing about in front of his eyes. He gripped the objects in his hand so tight they hurt.

"FUCK YOU, YOU GIANT ASSHOLE!" he shouted, or _tried_ to shout. The words were so choked they barely came out any louder than speaking. Stiles wanted to scream, but his throat was closing off too tightly. A thousand things were clouding his mind and none of them were making it to his mouth. Tears streaming down his face, he shook his head again and groped blindly for his jeep's door handle, somehow managing to catch hold of it and fling the door open.

"You know what? Fine! FINE! You know so much? Fan-fucking-tastic! Have it your own way. You think I'm a traitor? Then you should get the hell away from me, shouldn't you? And I hope I never see you again you ... you _giant fucking asshole_!" he repeated, feeling distinctly un-original, but too broken up to care. It was all too much. He was still too raw from the wounds that had sent him running out here in the first place. He couldn't do this again, not with Derek. Not after he'd ... oh holy _shit, _after he'd freaking _fallen _for him. _GOD Stilinski! Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Barely aware of what he was holding, Stiles flung the things in his hand onto the passenger seat as he swung up into the jeep. His phone and the loose credit card landed on the seat; his wallet bounced and careened down into the foot well. He was crying so hard he could barely see what he was doing. He more than halfway expected Derek to stop him and drag him out at any minute. He expected the other man to hit him or take the car or _something... _wouldn't that make sense if Stiles was everything Derek thought he was?

Derek did none of those things. Instead, he simply turned and stalked away as Stiles slammed the door. Stiles hesitated, frowning through his tears, uncertain of what was happening until he heard the rumble of an engine behind the station and realized that Derek must have just fired up the old 4x4 pickup that served as the station's tow truck and was now the only car here besides Stiles' jeep that was still operational. This was confirmed a moment later when the truck pulled out from behind the station, Derek behind the wheel.

In a crunching of gravel, the truck pulled level with the jeep while Stiles was still trying to process what was happening.

"Don't follow me, or I _will _shoot you," Derek warned him through the open window. "And if you're _stupid _enough to let Kate know how you tried to double cross her by telling her where I've gone, then you deserve what you'll get." With that, he gunned the engine and sped away. Crossing the road but not following it, he headed out across country.

Derek pushed the groaning, jouncing old vehicle hard, not at all sure it was going to be up to this trip, but having no other viable options. His mind was in turmoil. He was going to try the cross country route to the highway because it was the only possible route of escape that hopefully wasn't being watched ... but Stiles knew the plan. Stiles had _made _the plan. Derek hadn't searched his vehicle for weapons. Stiles may not be up to taking him in a physical fight, but if he was armed he might come after him. Stiles really would be an idiot to tattle on him to Kate, but maybe Derek had it wrong and he was working with Yates, and even if not he probably had his own people he was busy getting in touch with right now. Derek cursed himself as he realized that he had been so upset he hadn't even thought to take Stiles' phone and had in fact given it _back _to him. Swearing aloud, he struck the steering wheel violently with the heel of his hand. Was there any _possible _way he could mess everything up more than he already had? _Not likely._ If Stiles' allies were close, they could be mobilizing to cut him off right now and that would mean Derek was totally screwed.

He should have killed Stiles. Instead, he'd handed the man another chance to betray him. For a moment back there, he'd considered knocking Stiles out, taking his jeep and leaving him stranded for Kate to find and take out her displeasure upon. Even if he hadn't been ready to be that cruel, he should have at least put a bullet in his head ... but he couldn't. He couldn't because he was an idiot and even if it was all just brilliant acting, Stiles had been standing there practically _sobbing _and Derek ... Derek couldn't see past it. He couldn't see past the person he'd _thought _Stiles was to whatever truth actually lay beneath. He couldn't get past the image of the young man that had spent the past few days with him and stuck by his side as it all went to hell. He knew in his head that was all a lie and he was being completely stupid, but that didn't seem to matter to his heart. Things had gone too far, Derek had gotten himself in too deep and he simply could not bring himself to do Stiles harm, even knowing what he now knew. If that meant he was fucked, then, he was fucked.

Derek had made too many mistakes in his life. He could no longer trust his own judgment, not enough to take a life. He realized with surprise and dismay that there was still some part of him clinging to the very, very small chance that maybe he was completely wrong and there was some other valid explanation that could cover all the damning facts against Stiles. Or that perhaps he was right, but that Stiles had started to change his mind along the way and maybe ... _maybe _some of what they'd shared had been genuine. Those were stupid, stupid little hopes built on far too much fantasy and having read too many dumb books where things always worked out in ways that never happened in the real world, but it was there nevertheless, if only to prove once and for all what a moron he was.

He supposed none of that really mattered anymore at this point. What was done was done. Stiles could betray him or not; all he could do was run. That's all he'd ever been able to do.

Stiles stared numbly at the receding shape of the lumbering truck and the large dust cloud it was kicking up for a few moments before he finally fumbled back into action. Wiping his eyes and sniffing, he retrieved his keys from where he'd left them stashed under the seat and revved the engine to life. Popping the car into gear, he took off in more or less the same manner that Derek just had.

It was all well and good for Derek to say not to follow him, but what other direction was Stiles supposed to go? He still had to make it to the highway, and this was the only way he could go without being easily spotted. A lone car traveling down the road was going to attract the attention of the watchers Kate had set, and his jeep could too easily be identified as the one from the station. Even without Derek, he still needed to get some place with enough traffic that he could blend in and lose himself before he would be safe.

Steering out into the hilly, rough terrain of the desert and quickly enveloped in a dust cloud of his own, Stiles angled away to the left, trying to take as much of a different trajectory from Derek as he could while still aiming to meet up with the highway. Numbly, he hoped that maybe splitting up would at least do the good of forcing their pursuers to split up too, whenever they eventually found out what happened. Maybe it could buy Derek a little extra time, because... even if he _was_ a giant fucking asshole, Stiles still desperately wanted him to escape and be okay.

Stiles' wet clothes were clinging to him, hot and sticky now in the confines of the car. The landscape was rough and although the tough little jeep was handling it well, the suspension was doing exactly nothing to cushion the ride. Stiles bounced all over in his seat, which felt pretty awful on his sore body. He tried not to think about it, especially because of how he'd gotten some of that soreness. The hard objects in his pockets dug into him uncomfortably as the car rattled and after a minute Stiles dug distractedly into his pockets with one hand, grabbing the cell phone parts and wallet he'd taken off the guard at the station and tossing them carelessly into the passenger side foot well.

Continually wiping his eyes and trying hard to focus on the task ahead of him, Stiles spared a glance at the other phone on the seat next to him. _His phone._ He was still really confused about where on earth Derek had gotten the phone that he'd thought lost and likely smashed into a million pieces somewhere along the roadside. Derek had been doing something in the back of his jeep when he came out of the diner... was it possible that Stiles _hadn't _set the phone on top of the car with his coffee when he left Redding?

He tried to remember back to the morning he left the motel, before his fateful, impulsive detour towards the Rainbow Canyons and the subsequent car trouble that had led to him meeting Derek. His mind felt spongy and dull as he tried to reconstruct the events. His phone was off, he remembered that much. He'd turned it off the previous night when ignoring the persistent vibrations of incoming tweets and Scott's intermittent dribble of equally persistent worried text messages had become too emotionally draining. There was, perhaps, some part of him that had unconsciously _wanted _to lose the phone, or at least not turn it back on again for a while.

_He was carrying his pillow and toiletries bag along with some clothes and night stuff bundled up in his arms, juggling his phone and a large paper coffee cup when he went out to his jeep. He'd set the phone and coffee on top of the car before shoving everything else in the back..._ or had he? He didn't actually remember the actions, he just figured that's what _must _have happened 20 miles later when he finally realized he had neither phone nor coffee in the cup holders where he usually kept both. Maybe he'd only put the coffee on the roof, and his phone had fallen in with the rest of the stuff he shoved in the back? That was the only explanation that made sense, given the phone's reappearance.

He wished he could explain all that to Derek now that he had worked it out, but no, Derek probably wouldn't believe him anyway. He'd clearly already made up his mind. Stiles was done begging people to believe him if they wanted to think the worst on only the flimsiest amount of suspicious evidence. _Let them. _If the simple facts that he had stupidly misplaced his phone and went by a nickname were enough to condemn him in Derek's eyes, then _whatever._

Stiles didn't think he was being unreasonable about this. He understood that Derek had been _seriously _hurt and had a lot of reason to be suspicious of everybody, he did. The guy probably really did have some form of PTSD he told himself, and he tried to let that temper the hurt and anger he was feeling. It wasn't doing much yet, but eventually it might. If he lived that long.

He dropped the phone into the cup holder where he usually kept it. As he did, Stiles caught sight of the blood streaked card also on the seat beside him, the one that had caused Derek to freak out so badly. Stiles frowned at the offending object, uncertain what it was. It wasn't his license or one of his two credit cards. Keeping one hand on the wheel he picked the card up with the other to examine it. Turning it over, he finally recognized it. It was a Chevron gas card; a station specific credit card good for use at any of the chain's locations.

He hadn't recognized it immediately, because it wasn't actually his. Aware that his credit cards were close to maxed and that he wasn't about to contact his father for money, Allison had given him the card before he took off. He'd tried to refuse, but she'd been insistent. _"Just in case," _she had said as she pressed it into his hand, her earnest eyes begging him to take it. _"For emergencies on the road if nothing else. Please?"_

He'd relented because that was easier than arguing and making the only two people who gave a damn about him feel more crappy than they already did. Scott had looked as sad and angry as a kicked puppy and Stiles had just wanted to escape before his best friend started getting any stupid ideas about wrecking his own life out of a misguided sense of loyalty.

The card could be used at the pump without needing a signature. Allison had told him that he didn't need to worry about paying her back and to feel free to use it for gas. Stiles hadn't. He'd never intended to, unless he ran out of his traveling cash unexpectedly, but the offer had been genuine and it had been nice of her to do that. He knew Allison felt responsible in a way for some of what had happened, even though none of it had been her fault. Stiles was the one who should have known better ... but apparently, he was an all around truly horrible judge of character who consistently ended up with complete jerks.

Stiles tossed the card back on the seat with a scowl. He had no idea why Derek should have reacted so badly over it. Sure, Derek had clearly already thought Stiles was using at least one alias, but did Derek really think he was sometimes passing himself off as _Allison? _As he thought this, Stiles' eyes strayed one more time to the card ... and suddenly the world felt like it went into slow motion, something sparking sharply in his brain as his gaze caught and held on the upraised letters that spelled out his friend's full name.

_Allison Argent._


End file.
